


Climbing Out of Love

by mslilylashes



Series: Dubious [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2020-10-27 08:44:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20757569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mslilylashes/pseuds/mslilylashes
Summary: Despite being five months into his affair with Victor, Sherlock is still not yet able or willing to leave his abusive boyfriend. As each day passes, Victor falls a bit more in love with Sherlock.Sherlock is the one being hurt, but Victor is the one dying inside every time Sherlock rolls from his bed, and returns home, not knowing what is waiting for him there.Falling in love is easy... Climbing out of love is something else altogether.Dubious-verse University AU — Takes us from the end of Say Something to just before the night of Rolling Thunder.





	1. Part I — Prologue — October 1996

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this piece comes from this song by the immensely talented Chester See, which in my mind is also the song Victor composed for Sherlock at the end of Say Something (instrumental only):
> 
> https://youtu.be/MHnB0vDiR6k
> 
> (This beautiful man _might_ also be the mental image I have for Victor, but who can say ;) Just in case you wanted some insight into some lilylashes headcanon.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes about this piece:
> 
> Things get a bit... Grim. Say Something was the happy instalment in which Sherlock and Victor fall in love (even though they never actually say the words.) Climbing Out of Love is exactly that — the direct opposite, and anyone who has read Dubious knows how it ends. And it shatters both of them.
> 
> As always, comments/kudos are my 7% — no, seriously! Feedback always makes my day so much better... Makes me feel a little less like I’m shouting out into the void, lol.
> 
> See you next Tuesday.
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART I — PROLOGUE — OCTOBER 1996

_Somewhere somehow I saw you_  
_In a different light than I used to_  
_In that kind of way that you can't ignore_  
_You know, I know it's foolish_  
_Searching for love when your heart is_  
_Already loved and spoken for_

_So I'm climbing out of love with you_  
_Cause for us to work we'd break some rules_  
_And I don't know, if you'll let go and fall with me_  
_Yeah, I'll bite my tongue and hold my breath_  
_Find my way out of this mess_  
_Cause I don't know, if you'll let go and fall with me_  
_So I'm climbing out of love_  
_Yeah, I'm climbing out of love_

_31 October 1996_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I miss you._

_For me, there’s no other way to phrase it, though I’m sure you would have a much more eloquent way of describing this empty feeling inside of me. I miss our long talks in the park, I miss our afternoon coffee, and most of all, I miss our quiet weekends away at my parents’, curled up by the piano. I miss drinking wine from coffee mugs, and building forts._

_I wish the summer never had to end._

_I want you to know that our time together has been some of the very best days of my life, and I would not trade a single one, even though it means that now the autumn brings with it an ache for things to go back to the way they were, or a startling void that yearns to be filled._

_I know I’m being a bit dramatic; we still have the library, and perhaps eventually dinner or (fingers crossed) the occasional weekend away, but after being so close this past summer, it just doesn’t seem like enough._

_ <s>I wish I could take you home, and you would stay forev</s> _

_ <s>I wish we could be together alw</s> _

_ <s>I wish you would leave your</s> _

_You said once that you wished things could be different._

_Please know that I wish the same. Very much, and very frequently._

_You are the best thing that ever happened to me. No matter what._

_I can’t wait to see you tomorrow in the library._

_Happy Halloween._

_Yours,_  
_Victor_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I also said this at the end of Say Something: I am looking to expand beyond AO3 and connect to more of the Sherlock community, but don’t know where to start. Any help would be appreciated!


	2. Part II — November 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Warning for first time (coerced) drug use.***
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left some love for this and other stories this past week <3
> 
> See you next Tuesday :)
> 
> Xx lilylashes

_You make me go crazy, I'm helpless_   
_And I know that I should just confess_   
_But I'm scared that I'll lose what I recently found_

NOVEMBER 1996

For Sherlock, the start of term in October was like crashing back into reality. The summer and early autumn had been like a vacation from his life, full of freedom, and weekend trips to Kent, and spending more time with Victor than he ever imagined he would be able to, mostly because Liam had started staying out with his friends from work. There were times he hadn’t returned home for days at a time, only calling and leaving messages on the answering machine when he knew Sherlock would be out or sleeping. The sudden disappearances had left Sherlock feeling both sad that he and Liam seemed to suddenly be leading separate lives, but also excited at the opportunity to spend more time with Victor.

However, now that time had come to an end. October had come and gone, and November showed up with its dropping temperatures and and bleak, grey skies. Sherlock attended his courses dutifully, and resumed his daily trips to the library, as this seemed like the only time he could see Victor anymore. Though they would meet and still talk for hours, Sherlock sorely missed their closeness from the summer, when they had so fewer worries and obligations.

Liam had started coming home more often, as his work schedule picked up as well. Now a year out of uni, he had landed a job at one of the big stock exchange brokerage companies in the city, and had apparently impressed them enough that they were letting him start attending client meetings. He often came home exhausted and short-tempered now, but driven with purpose. Sherlock did his best to stay out of his way, and tried to attend to any need Liam let be known. More often than not, this meant kneeling on the floor of the sitting room, performing oral sex on Liam while he sat on the sofa reading the newspaper, which was a humiliating, but not entirely unpleasant task. The appointments entertaining guests had become few and far between, and Sherlock was glad for it. 

Of course, these calm moments were never able to last forever, and it was only a matter of time before Sherlock was expected to perform again for Liam’s associates, and it was only mid-November by the time Liam brought another friend home and summoned Sherlock to the sitting room. Sherlock recognised the man as Charles from Liam’s birthday party — the one who had suggest Liam kick Sherlock in the ribs for ‘one to grow on’ birthday kicks.

This time, however, Sherlock was shocked to see that Charles had brought his own source of entertainment in the form of several small plastic bags of white powder that were strewn across the coffee table.

‘Liam?’ He asked quietly, ‘What...?’

‘Oh, Sherlock, knock it off,’ Liam said impatiently, ‘It’s not like you’ve never seen a bit of coke before.’

But he was wrong; Sherlock _hadn’t_ ever seen coke before, at least not in real life, and certainly not that up close and personal. He’d tried smoking marijuana exactly twice before deciding it wasn’t for him, because it made him feel stupid and sleepy, and he’d been known to smoke cigarettes like a fiend, but never had he been presented with hard drugs.

So Sherlock just stared at the stash on his coffee table with trepidation, and his apprehension only grew when Liam picked up one of the bags, flicked it gently, and tapped some out on the glass. surface of the coffee table.

‘Liam, what are you doing?’ Sherlock asked again, his voice sounding very small and pathetic to his own ears. 

Liam groaned, ‘God, Sherlock, what the fuck does it look like I’m doing?’ He spat, as he picked up a razor blade, and began dividing cocaine into the small, even lines, ‘I’m trying to unwind in my own fucking flat for once.’

‘My fault, Sherlock,’ Charles piped in with a patronising smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, ‘My old lady kicked us out for being too raucous, so we had to come here. Normally she’s out on Wednesdays, and we just entertain ourselves at my flat.’

‘Liam, you mean, you-’ Sherlock began to ask before Liam pounded his fist on the table, upsetting his delicate work cutting the white powder into lines.

‘_Goddamnit, Sherlock_!’ He roared, ‘Can you just shut the fuck up for _five fucking minutes_ and let me concentrate! Jesus _Christ_,’ he swore, turning his attention back to the task at hand, before continuing, ‘I am _killing myself_, working fifty hours a week to make sure you are taken care of. I pay for the flat, for our food, for the bloody cable television, all the while you lounge about on your arse, playing the mad scientist and pissing off every goddamn person we come in contact with with your stupid fucking deduction game. All I ask is for you to at least _attempt_ to act like a normal fucking human being when we are in our own goddamn home, and you have to act like a spoiled fucking _child_ when faced with a tiny bit of blow.’ 

Liam glared ferociously at Sherlock, and grabbed what looked like a rolled up piece of paper, which he held over the cocaine, and with the air of someone who had certainly performed the task many times before, snorted the line in one fluid movement. He shook his head for a moment, then turned back to Sherlock, still annoyed, but no longer furious. He reached a hand out to him, and Sherlock went to him, and let himself be pulled into a sloppy embrace.

‘I- I’m sorry, Liam,’ Sherlock whispered, feeling as though he might have fallen into a surreal sort of nightmare, ‘I didn’t mean to distract you.’

‘Aw, Harrington, don’t be hard on him. Look, he’s all wound up,’ Charles said with a smirk, ‘You should share some of the stash with him, you know, to help him relax. It’ll make it better for all of us.’

‘I don’t- I mean, I’ve never- I mean... No thank you, Charles,’ Sherlock stuttered hurriedly, ‘I don’t need any. I can do... Whatever it is you two need me to do without being... You know. Without it.’

‘You know... He’s not wrong, Sherlock,’ Liam murmured thoughtfully into Sherlock’s ear, ‘Sex while high is... An experience. I think you would love it.’

‘Liam...’ Sherlock said, fear tight around his chest, ‘I’ve never done drugs.’ It sounded childish, and Sherlock sighed unhappily, but he knew enough of biology to know the risk of seizures, cardiac arrest, or death.

‘Sherlock, it’s really not a big deal. This is great quality stuff, and I’ve been doing it for a long while now without any issues. I wouldn’t offer it to you if I didn’t think it was safe,’ Liam reassured him gently, ‘I’m sorry I was cross before... Work has been taking the piss out of me, and I just needed to unwind a bit. And I would love it if you were to indulge with me. As I said, I really think you would enjoy it, and I know I would enjoy making you feel good.’

‘How long?’ Sherlock asked quietly, ‘How long have you been doing... This?’

Liam thought for a moment, then answered ‘For almost a year. And I’ve had no medical issues or any of that,’ he said carelessly, misinterpreting the motivation for Sherlock’s query.

Sherlock felt as though Liam had punched him in the chest. For almost a year, he had been putting drugs into his body, and had not breathed a single word of it to Sherlock. Humiliation, hot and prickly, seemed to seep into Sherlock’s chest. He thought back to last December, shortly before New Years, when Liam had come home late, and fucked him rough, with no preparation. Sherlock had begged and pleaded for him to slow down, but he was too engrossed in the act to acknowledge Sherlock’s words. Sherlock had bled, and spent the entire following day in bed, with Liam bringing him coffee and toast, apologising profusely, and blaming stress from the job search for his oversight. Now Sherlock wondered — was he actually high then? Was that why he had said that sex while high was ‘an experience’? Sherlock privately felt as though that had been the turning point of their relationship — was it possible that the change had been within Liam, not between them?

‘Oh,’ was all he could think of to say, and apparently that was not the response Liam was looking for, because he coldly shrugged Sherlock from his embrace, and pulled away from him before speaking again.

‘Whatever, Sherlock,’ he said tiredly, scrubbing his hands over his face, ‘If you’re not going to try to have a good time with us, then just go to bed. I don’t have time for this.’

The rejection hurt. It seemed like lately there was no connection between them, even when Sherlock was on his knees servicing Liam. He yearned for the closeness they once had.

He just wanted Liam to smile at him again and mean it.

He took a shaky breath, and bit his lip before turning to Liam and nuzzling in under his chin.

‘What would I have to do?’ He asked softly, ‘Do I have to snort it or...?’

Liam pressed a kiss into his hair and murmured ‘Thank you, Sherlock. You’re going to love it. You can take it however you’d like... We can mix it up for you to inject, but I think you’d be better off just snorting it to be honest.’

‘Okay, Liam,’ Sherlock said valiantly, forcing himself to choke down his tears. He clenched his teeth, and accepted the rolled up paper, and with a little guidance from Liam, inhaled quickly, the white powder flying up the paper tube, and into Sherlock’s nose. His eyes watered briefly, and he coughed for a moment before shaking his head viciously.

The effects were nearly instantaneous.

Sherlock felt like an electric current was shot straight to his brain; it was as though someone had lit his nerve endings on fire. He breathed in, and swore he could feel every molecule of oxygen entering his lungs.

‘Oh. _Oh_,’ he breathed faintly, ‘Oh my.’

‘I told you it was something, didn’t I?’ He heard Liam ask, and his voice pierced Sherlock’s brain like a missile.

‘Yes, Liam,’ he replied dazedly, ‘Oh. Oh, wow.’

And then Liam was kissing him, and it was bloody brilliant. Every touch vibrated through his entire body, and he felt like they were cymbals crashing together to cause music and chaos and light. Charles’ laughter rang out somewhere in the backdrop, but what the fuck did he matter when Sherlock was an exploding star, and Liam was a supernova, and things were finally, blissfully right again.

~*~

It was incredibly late — or perhaps incredibly early — when Sherlock woke suddenly, alone in his bed. He thought his head was pounding, but that might have just been his heart. His veins were full of cement, and his ears were full of sand. Everything ached.

The brilliance he felt on the other side of midnight was long gone, and in its place was just darkness and hurt, and good god, it was _hateful_.

He peered around in the darkness, hoping to find a glimpse of Liam, but the flat sounded eerily quiet, and somehow he knew Liam was gone too.

Somewhere in his heavy, heavy head, visions of the previous night flashed like a projection slide run out of control, and he remembered how sex while high had indeed been _an experience_, and so very, very good. Every touch heightened, every sensation magnified, and it didn’t even matter when Charles had joined in, because it just meant more, and it didn’t matter that it hurt, because for a moment he forgot which was pain and which was pleasure.

And Christ almighty, if he hadn’t begged for both.

Liam and Charles had positively wrung him out, stopping only to top off their highs. Sherlock too, having entirely forgotten what he had been so afraid of. Cocaine was brilliant, and so was he, and so was Liam, and even Charles. He had begged for release over and over, and each time it ripped him apart in the very best of ways.

But now...

Now that the world had slowed back down, his body had not. He could feel his heartbeat thundering away, somehow seeming more sinister in the darkness of the empty flat. The shadows seemed threatening, and the silence seemed deafening. He found himself reaching for the phone, wanting desperately not to be alone, but then he realised he had no idea if Liam was even still with Charles, and even if he was, he didn’t even know Charles’ last name, much less his phone number.

Instead, he decided to dial another very familiar number, and felt the ringing of the other line reverberating through the receiver into his very bones.

‘Hello?’ came a groggy and confused, yet comforting voice. Sherlock’s heart leapt into his throat, as the words came tumbling out of his mouth.

‘Victor? Victor, is that you?’ Sherlock whispered frantically into the phone, ‘Victor, I don’t know what to do. I feel so ill right now, Victor, I’m afraid my heart is going to pound right out of my chest.’

‘Sherlock?’ Victor asked, suddenly alert, ‘Sherlock, what’s wrong? What happened? Where are you; are you okay?’

‘_Victor_,’ Sherlock all but sobbed, ‘I made a mistake, I shouldn’t have done- I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to be alone, and it was stupid. I was stupid. I am so stupid Victor, and I’m kind of afraid it’s going to kill me.’

‘Sherlock!’ Victor said again urgently, ‘Sherlock, tell me what’s wrong. _What happened_?’

‘Can you just come, please, just come. I know I told you you can’t come ‘round to my flat anymore, but I can’t be alone right now. I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to die alone, and I really think my heart is going to explode or I’ll forget how to breathe,’ Sherlock cried miserably, ‘I’ve never felt anything this horrible in my entire life. I just don’t want to be alone.’

‘I’ll be right there, Sherlock, can you hold on? I’ll come; I’m coming, can you hold a bit longer? Are you safe? Are you hurt? Is- is _he_ there with you?’ Victor asked, and Sherlock heard rustling in the background as Victor got up and got dressed.

‘No, he’s not here, no one is here,’ Sherlock replied, his anxiety fractionally abating, ‘It’s just me. I’m not hurt, Victor, but I’m stupid, so so so stupid, and I don’t know what to do. I need you.’

‘Okay, Sherlock, please hang on. I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ Victor assured him soothingly.

‘Please hurry, Victor, I don’t know what to do,’ Sherlock begged.

‘I’m coming Sherlock, just hold on, alright? Just hold on for me. I’m coming to you now,’ Victor promised. 

Sherlock nodded, knowing Victor couldn’t see him, but suddenly unable to speak. He gently replaced the handset to the cradle, and buried his head in his arms, weaving his fingers into the hair at the base of his skull and pulling fiercely. He wanted to scream, and cry, and tear himself apart, but he knew he couldn’t. Instead, he forced himself to rise from the bed, and make his way to the sitting room to wait.

Victor was coming. Soon all would be fine.


	3. Part III — November 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who has left some love both here and on other works. Your feedback is what makes posting feel worth it <3
> 
> This part is mainly fluff and stuff, because very soon the storyline gets dark and angsty, and it’s been breaking my heart to write!
> 
> Please leave a note if the spirit moves you. It truly brightens my week!
> 
> See you next Tuesday :)
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART III

_When you smile, I smile cause you're perfect_   
_If quiet keeps you, it's worth it_   
_Oh, I'll keep to my self to keep you around_

NOVEMBER 1996

Finding a cab at 4:12 in the morning was no easy feat. 

Victor’s mind was a complete whirlwind of panic and desperation as it volleyed frantically between trying to find a cab, or just full out sprinting across town to Sherlock. In the end, he did both — he ran a few blocks at a time, then waited a few moments to catch his breath, and see if a cab might magically turn up. It didn’t.

Nearly half an hour later, Victor arrived outside Sherlock’s flat, his lungs ready to burst, and his heart positively lodged in his throat. The whole run over, he just kept hearing Sherlock’s sobs as he begged ‘_I don’t want to die alone_’. He had then assured Victor he wasn’t hurt, just ‘stupid’, whatever that meant, leaving Victor frantic and desperate to see him.

Victor leapt up the stairs to the flat two at a time, and thankfully found the front door unlocked. He stepped inside, and found the door to the ground floor flat partially ajar, but the lights off.

‘Sherlock?’ He called softly, and pushed the door in slowly. It only moved a few inches before hitting something solid. From the faint glow of the hallway, he saw the light reflect on some sort of blue shiny material. He squeezed inside the door, and groped blindly for a light, finally finding a switch on the wall next to him that he flipped immediately.

It was Sherlock, curled up on the floor just inside the front door in a tight ball in a blue dressing gown, his hands clutching his hair so tightly that Victor could see the skin of his scalp straining and white beneath them. His eyes were squeezed shut, and Victor could see the heavy, rapid rise and fall of his back as his breaths came out ragged and laboured.

He was not in a good way.

Victor immediately dropped to his knees beside Sherlock, and pulled him close. He gently pried Sherlock’s hands from his hair, and rolled him half onto his back. Sherlock cracked one eye open to look at him, his brow furrowing in pain from the bright lights.

‘Victor,’ he mumbled, ‘Victor, you came. I can’t believe you’re really here.’ He struggled to sit up, but his movements were jerky and sluggish, as though he was not in full control of his body. Victor laid a hand on his chest to steady him, and could feel Sherlock’s heart thundering away under his palm.

‘Sherlock, what the hell happened to you?’ Victor asked urgently. He placed two fingers under Sherlock’s jaw, and glanced at his watch to try to measure his pulse like he’d learnt in Boy Scouts when he was a child, but found he kept losing count.

‘I was so stupid, Victor, I did something unbelievably stupid,’ Sherlock admitted groggily, ‘I’ve never done drugs before, I swear. I knew it was a bad idea, but I just wanted things to be okay for once. And now I feel as though my heart is going to explode.’

‘What do you mean, drugs, Sherlock?’ Victor asked, horrified, ‘Did you take something? What happened?’

‘I just wanted things to be okay,’ Sherlock said again, sounding as though he might break into tears, ‘I just wanted to make him happy. It was so stupid, Victor, I can’t believe how stupid I am.’

‘You’re not stupid, Sherlock,’ Victor said sharply, ‘What do you mean you wanted to make him happy? Did he pressure you into taking something? _What did you take_?’

Sherlock’s eyes were closing again, and Victor found himself dangerously close to slapping him in the face to keep him awake, but thankfully Sherlock caught himself, and shook his head vigorously. He struggled to sit up, and pulled away from Victor slightly, regarding him apprehensively.

‘Cocaine,’ he admitted in a voice that was barely a whisper, ‘I’m so sorry, Victor. Liam... He wanted me to do it with him. He said that sex while high was an experience he wanted me to share with him.’

‘What the fuck,’ Victor swore angrily, ‘That fucking bastard. I can’t believe he made you-’

‘He didn’t make me, Victor,’ Sherlock confessed, shame colouring his pale cheeks, ‘I took it of my own volition. His friend was with him, and supplied it, Liam indulged, and suggested I do the same, and said it would please him, and I — for some idiotic, godforsaken reason — chose to oblige him. And Victor,’ he continued, a faraway, yet hungry look taking over his features, ‘he was _right_. It truly was _an experience_, and for once it didn’t hurt. They both fucked me for hours, and it didn’t hurt.’

Victor felt as though he might be sick listening to Sherlock’s words. _So much_ was wrong with every single thing he was saying, that Victor didn’t even know where to begin a counter argument, so instead he asked quietly, ‘Are you going to do it again?’

Sherlock didn’t speak for a long while, but he seemed to be regaining his strength and senses. Victor watched his face change from ashamed and embarrassed, to thoughtful, to perplexed, to grim finality.

‘Yes, Victor, I most likely will, provided I don’t suffer some sort of cardiac event tonight, though my heart rate seems to have slowed down considerably. I’m terribly sorry; I shouldn’t have called for you to come. Apologies for the inconvenience,’ he said finally, a detached and defiant note in his tone that did not match the vulnerability in his eyes.

‘I will always show up for you, Sherlock, convenient or not,’ Victor replied, stunned, ‘But I have to ask — _why_? Why indulge him? Why do something like this, that makes you feel so sick and scared afterwards? Why take the risk?’ 

What he really wanted to ask was _Why do you stay with him?_ but he knew he would never cross that line.

Sherlock was again quiet for a long while, before he took a deep breath, and said softly, ‘It didn’t hurt. And I don’t expect you to understand — I wouldn’t _want_ you to understand. But it didn’t hurt, and it wasn’t embarrassing, and instead, it felt good — it felt _electric_. And I was so out of my head, that I didn’t even care that he let his friend fuck me. Victor, if it could be like that every time, I just might be able to survive this. The way I feel after is a small price to pay; I expect by tomorrow — or rather, later today — the memory of how awful the comedown was will be replaced with the need for more.’

It was the first time Sherlock had admitted even partially how the dynamic of his home life with Liam made him feel. Victor tried to keep his emotions in check, as he fought the urge to vomit, or break things, but he couldn’t avoid the tears that sprang into his eyes, no matter how hard he tried.

‘Please don’t,’ he said, his voice breaking, ‘Please, Sherlock. I would take you away from here in a second if you’d let me. This shouldn’t be something you _survive_; you could have so much more. You deserve so much more. You deserve _everything_.’

‘Victor, stop,’ Sherlock said gently, running his thumbs under Victor’s eyes, ‘I can’t. I can’t explain it, but I just can’t. Please don’t... Don’t make me choose. Not now. I’m horrible and selfish, and I’m not ready to lose you, and I’m not strong enough. I just... Can’t.’

Victor wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and pulled him close, ‘I’m sorry, Sherlock. When we first... I swore I wouldn’t... I didn’t mean to. I don’t want to pressure you. I just... Want to help you. How can I help you? What do you need?’

‘Right now, Victor, what I want most in the world is to have a bath, and fall asleep with you. Can we...?’ Sherlock asked, almost shyly.

‘Here?’ Victor asked cautiously, knowing that if Sherlock’s boyfriend found him asleep in his bed, it would not bode well for either of them.

‘I don’t know where Liam is,’ Sherlock admitted uncomfortably, ‘I’m assuming he left with his friend Charles, but I don’t know if or when he plans to return.’ He glanced at the clock which read 05:24, ‘He doesn’t need to be at the office for another two hours, so he may still stop back here to change. I think it would be best if we went to yours... That is to say... If you don’t mind?’

That vulnerable, unsure waver in his voice that Victor hated so much was back. He pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s hair, and held him tight, ‘Of course not. You are always welcome at mine. Do you want to go now?’

Sherlock nodded, ‘I should change, though. And leave a note in case Liam does come back. Five minutes?’ 

Victor agreed, and Sherlock leapt to his feet with surprising grace, considering how Victor had found him a mere twenty minutes ago. A few moments later, he re-emerged from the darkened hallway wearing soft pyjama bottoms and a grey t-shirt, and grabbed a notepad from an end table. He scrawled a few quick lines on it, before tossing it down onto the coffee table.

Against his better judgement, Victor peered down at it as inconspicuously as possible.

_L-_

_Went to the riverside for clay samples, then heading to the lab to test. Won’t be back til after dinner. _

_Thought you might like to know._

_Love, SH_

Victor swallowed hard, trying to ignore the bitter taste in his mouth. _Love_, Sherlock had said. It just wasn’t right; it wasn’t fair. He shook his head, trying to dislodge his jealous, petty thoughts, then shifted uncomfortably when he caught sight of Sherlock watching him closely. He bit his tongue and forced a small smile.

‘Ready?’ He asked awkwardly. Sherlock nodded, and grabbed his familiar leather overnight bag, flipped the light back off, and lead them out the door.

~*~

Finding a cab at nearly 6 AM was far easier. Within ten minutes, they were climbing the stairs to Victor’s flat, and within fifteen, Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bathtub watching pensively as it filled with gloriously hot water, and fragrant, foamy bubbles. Victor remembered Sherlock mentioning before about baths being the one thing that would soothe him when he was a small, angry child, so the second they were in the door, he set about running a bath for him. 

Now he was sat awkwardly on the closed seat of the toilet in the cramped bathroom, watching the tub fill. When it reached an acceptable level, he quickly turned the tap off, and glanced over at Sherlock. 

‘Would you like me to stay or go?’ He asked, unsure of what would help Sherlock the most. Sherlock shook his head slightly, startled from his reverie, and yawned.

‘Stay,’ he said, yawning again, ‘Make sure I don’t fall asleep and drown in the tub.’ Victor eyes flew open in alarm, but then he snorted when he saw Sherlock’s lips quirk up in a smile.

Sherlock quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head, and slipped out of his pyjama bottoms, hesitating only slightly before climbing into the bath and letting out a contented sigh. He slid down until the water came almost up to his chin, and gave Victor a sleepy, shy grin.

‘You’re too good to me, Victor Trevor,’ he murmured, his chin now dipping dangerously low in the water, ‘I swear, I don’t deserve you.’

‘You weren’t joking about drowning in the bathtub, were you, you sentimental fool,’ Victor teased fondly, ‘Sit up before you fall asleep.’

Sherlock groaned, and scooted up an inch or so, but his eyelids remained low and heavy. Victor snorted, and rolled up his shirtsleeves before reaching into the warm water, and trying to bodily prop Sherlock into a sitting position.

‘Up!’ He instructed with a laugh, ‘Here, I’ll help you wash up, and then we can crawl into bed and sleep all day if you like.’ He reached for his soap and began to gently wash Sherlock, whose eyes were fully closed now, and he leaned into Victor’s touch with a sleepy smile on his face. The intimacy of the moment made Victor’s heart clench painfully in his chest.

As he ran his hands over Sherlock’s pliant body, he couldn’t help but categorise the new injuries Sherlock had attained since the last time they were together. There were several more bruises on his upper arms and shoulders, as if he had been gripped or held down too tightly, and even more across his back, and sides. 

The worst, though, were the angry violet bruises that encircled the base of his neck, as though someone had tried mightily to choke the life straight out of Sherlock. Those looked brand new, and were almost certainly part of the ‘experience’ his boyfriend had coerced him to partake in while high. He ran his fingers lightly over the marks, wanting desperately to kiss them away, when Sherlock’s hand suddenly shot up and grabbed his wrist.

‘Don’t worry about them, Victor,’ he said, still not opening his eyes, sleep slurring his words, ‘They’re worse than they look. I was never in danger; it was consensual.’

‘You can’t give consent unless you’re in a sober state of mind,’ Victor replied before he could stop himself, ‘God, Sherlock, the things he does to you...’

Sherlock growled in annoyance, and pulled away from Victor’s touch, forcing himself to sit up straight. He glared at Victor, still looking haggard, but now defiant, ‘Victor, I am much too exhausted to have this conversation yet again. How many times do I have to tell you _I am f_-’

‘_Fine_. Sorry for caring,’ Victor snapped, pulling his arms from the water, and reaching for a towel to dry his hands on. Once he was done, he held it out to Sherlock, who snatched it from him, and pulled the stopper in the tub. He was still glaring at Victor as he stood and wrapped the towel around his waist, and now Victor glared back. 

‘I’ll... I’ll be in my room,’ he said, frustration colouring his voice, ‘I... I just need a moment. There are toothbrushes and whatnot under the sink if you want one.’ 

Sherlock didn’t answer, so Victor just sighed and left, closing the door behind him. He knew he was being unfair, and petty, and childish, but it just _hurt_, and _goddamnit_, he was tired of it. Logically he knew his temper was significantly shorter than normal due to the slew of emotions he’d been through since he was woken up by Sherlock’s alarming phone call, and that it was sheer exhaustion and the sudden drop of adrenaline that was making him act irrationally, but he didn’t want to be logical or rational right now.

He wrenched open the door to his room, and stripped his own shirt off before climbing into bed. From down the hall, he heard Sherlock turn the tap on, and the faintest sounds of him brushing his teeth. He heard the tap turn off again, the bathroom door open, and Sherlock’s soft footfalls heading down the hall to his room. He turned to face the door, and saw Sherlock leaning in the doorway, half obscured in the grey early morning light, the towel still slung around his hips.

‘May I... Can I still...’ he began, hesitation, and a slight tremble in his voice. 

‘Of course, Sherlock,’ Victor whispered, pulling the covers back. 

Sherlock entered and made it right next to the bed before he hesitated again. He looked down at Victor uncertainly, before letting the towel fall to the floor, and climbing in next to him. Victor let the covers down back over both of them, but wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach across the space to touch Sherlock. 

After a few long moments, Sherlock, laying stiffly on his back, and staring at the ceiling said quietly, ‘You’re still angry.’ He refused to look at Victor, but Victor heard his breathing increase infinitesimally, felt his body tense next to him against the mattress, saw the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard.

‘Yes,’ Victor admitted honestly, ‘I’m sorry, but god, yes I am. The thought of you... Of him... Of all of it, Sherlock, I swear, I try not to be this way, but it just... It eats me up inside.’

‘Do you... I can... I’m sorry, Victor,’ Sherlock said softly, turning to face Victor, propping himself up on one arm. He scooted closer to Victor’s body, and Victor became suddenly very aware that Sherlock had come to bed without pyjamas, ‘Let me make it up to you.’ 

He kissed Victor urgently, slipping his tongue into Victor’s mouth, nipping at his lower lip, and pressed their hips together, at the same time snaking his other hand between the covers, reaching for Victor’s pyjama pants. He was just sliding his hand beneath the waistband when Victor caught his wrist, pulled it back out from under the covers, and broke away from Sherlock’s so very talented mouth.

‘No,’ he said firmly, forcing himself to ignore the look of surprise and hurt on Sherlock’s face at his refusal, ‘No, Sherlock, I would never want you to _make it up to me_ like... Like that. Especially when you look like you would rather be doing anything else in the world right now, not to mention you’re moments away from passing out. You said back at your flat you wanted to have a bath and a cuddle and sleep, so that is what we are going to do.’

Sherlock’s mouth fell open in surprise, but his eyes shone with gratitude, ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, even as a blush coloured his cheeks, ‘I’m sorry. I just thought...’

‘Thought I would feel better if I got a bit of my own back?’ Victor finished sadly, ‘No, Sherlock, it’s not like that. I’m not angry at you for... For being with him, I’m angry at _him_ for not cherishing and appreciating what he has, and I’m angry with _myself_ because I keep letting it come between us.’

Sherlock sighed, and stared at the ceiling again, ‘I’m sorry, Victor. I shouldn’t have... I know this isn’t easy for you. And I know you say these things because you... Because you care. And I know it’s selfish and unfair of me to keep putting you in this position.’

‘I’m sorry, too, Sherlock,’ Victor said, reaching blindly for Sherlock’s hand, ‘I’m sorry I keep saying things like that to make you feel defensive. I don’t want to keep making you feel as though you have to... To justify yourself to me. It just... It just hurts so much to see you being hurt. It kills me that you’re not being taken care of. I just... I wish there was more I could do.’

‘You do more than you know,’ Sherlock admitted, taking Victor’s hand, and whispering into the semi-darkness, ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you more. Maybe... Maybe someday. I don’t know.’ He rolled onto his side, and brought Victor’s hand to his lips, the expression on his face utterly broken, ‘Victor, if this is too much for you, too painful... I can walk away. I can disappear, and you would never hear from me again. I know I’m a fairly self-centered individual, but that doesn’t mean I don’t... Understand. Or see. I do, Victor, I see, and I understand, and I know how startling unfair this arrangement is to you. The last thing on this earth I ever want to do is cause you pain.’

‘Please don’t go, Sherlock,’ Victor murmured, rolling to face him, and burying his face into Sherlock’s hair, ‘Please. I’m sorry. No matter how much this hurts, losing you would hurt worse. That’s not what I want. And we can talk more about this later. But sleep now. We’re fine.’ 

Sherlock nodded, and leaned into Victor, let himself be pulled into Victor’s embrace, and finally, blessedly, allowed sleep to take him.


	4. Part IV — December 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who has shared some kindness this past week on anything posted here. It means so so so much <3
> 
> I have started posting sporadically on my tumblr that I created many moons ago, then promptly forgot about. I am going to start posting some back stories on how certain pieces came into being. I’ll link at the end for anyone who might be especially bored and like to check it out, haha.
> 
> Thank you again to anyone who is reading this mess, and leaving feedback. The entire journey of this backstory has been achingly personal for me, so any tiny bit of encouragement makes a bigger impact than you can ever imagine.
> 
> See you next Tuesday <3
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART IV

_So I'm climbing out of love with you_  
_Cos for us to work we'd break some rules_  
_And I don't know, if you'll let go and fall with me_

DECEMBER 1996

Cocaine... Was _brilliant_.

Cocaine was the catalyst that made the rest of the world tolerable.

Cocaine... Meant that Sherlock could get through whatever Liam asked of him at night, and still face the tedium of his coursework in the morning.

Liam liked to call cocaine Sherlock’s _yes button_, and then he would laugh, and wind his hands through Sherlock’s hair before shoving his cock down Sherlock’s throat, and Sherlock didn’t even care, because cocaine... Was brilliant.

His world was becoming very narrow — he knew this, but it didn’t much matter. He spent most nights now entertaining Liam’s guests, and on the nights it was just him and Liam, they explored many more diverse tastes than just the flogger and handcuffs. There wasn’t a single thing Liam could ask him to do, or do to him while he was high that he would refuse, and he was pretty sure Liam knew it.

Sherlock suspected that Victor knew it, too.

Sherlock still sought Victor out a few times a week, mainly in or around the library between classes, and appointments with Liam’s guests, in which he would blow in and blow out like a hurricane. More often than not, he would pull Victor behind bookshelves, or down corridors, snog him frantically — or sometimes bring him off so quickly that it would leave Victor gasping, and anyone in the general vicinity blissfully unaware — and then be off again. On the rare occasions that Sherlock did sit down long enough for a conversation, he pointedly ignored the way Victor’s eyes looked away after taking in his own bloodshot eyes, or the way Victor’s breath hitched when he saw new marks across Sherlock’s neck or wrists. (He’d given up his vigilance about wearing only button up shirts — while he still tried best he could, some days buttons just meant an extra step between him and the _experience_ of cocaine-fuelled fucking, and on others, bothering with seeking out a certain shirt was just too pedestrian a worry when there was so much else going on in the world.)

He was like a circus performer, keeping so many spinning plates in the air, and he’d never felt more alive and efficient.

The comedown was better as well. Now that he knew what to expect, he didn’t worry about foolishness like his heart exploding or forgetting how to breathe — idiotic thing to have thought in the first place. It simply meant that it was or would soon be time for more, and that certainly wasn’t a bad thing in itself.

Some days, Sherlock would catch sight of his red-eyed, pale-faced, gaunt looking reflection in the bathroom mirror, and something in the back of his mind would shout that he now looked like an addict; a junkie.

Most days, he couldn’t be arsed enough to care.

Mainly because cocaine was _brilliant_, and so was he.

~*~

Term ended the first Saturday of December without anything noteworthy taking place — including Sherlock’s final marks. He was vaguely disappointed, having been accustomed to pulling top marks all his life, but not all that surprised. On his way back to his flat, he pondered idly if he should have seen if his professors had the same types of dispositions as Liam’s friends seemed to, and if that could have helped him achieve higher marks. Regardless, it was too late now, and he only had two more terms left before he was done with university anyway.

He met with Victor the Tuesday after the end of term, this time in the cafe where Victor had had his art show all those months ago. It was wet and dreary day, and the cheerful Christmas decor seemed to grate on Sherlock’s fried nerves far more than they normally would. When ‘the Twelve Days of Christmas’ came warbling from the small radio propped near the cash register, Sherlock actually growled in disdain.

Victor regarded him warily from across their table. He slid Sherlock’s coffee over to him, and watched Sherlock down half of it in one swallow without adding his customary heaping spoonfuls of sugar. 

‘Stop looking at me like that,’ Sherlock snapped after a few more minutes dragged excruciatingly by, ‘I’m not a powder keg about to explode, I’m merely attempting to drink this foul cup of coffee without being assaulted by yet another Ode to Father Christmas screaming in my ear.’

Victor sighed, ‘It’s Christmastime, Sherlock, the whole world goes red and green until New Years every year, you know this. It’s nothing new.’

‘Well, it’s hateful!’ Sherlock nearly yelled, downing the last of his coffee, and slamming the mug down on the table. Several other patrons nearby who glanced in their direction were treated to a fierce glare from Sherlock, and an apologetic wave from Victor.

‘Well that was near enough to an explosion,’ Victor muttered, slouching in his seat, ‘Would you care to share what’s got you so wound up, or shall I just sit here in silence until the barista throws us out?’

Once he sensed Victor’s growing annoyance, Sherlock felt himself deflate like a balloon. Though he knew Victor had said he would never try to _get a bit of his own back_, the idea of Victor being angry with him made something in his stomach feel hot and prickly with anxiety. He sighed, sat up a little straighter, and began fiddling with the now empty coffee mug.

‘I’m sorry, Victor,’ he said quietly, trying to make his voice sound as docile as possible, while refusing to look Victor in the eye, ‘I don’t know what has me so... I think it’s just that the term has ended, my marks were far below my normal standard, you are leaving for the holiday to return to your parents’, and it’s just... It’s as though the world is continuing to move forward, and all I want is for it to stop for a moment so I can catch up.’

‘I understand,’ Victor told him truthfully, ‘I feel as though it was just the summer holiday, and we were... You know. And then school started back up, and I feel as though I’ve hardly seen you. Not really. I miss you.’ He looked away, and Sherlock could tell he hated how childish his words sounded.

‘I miss you too, Victor,’ Sherlock said gently, all traces of his earlier vitriol completely gone, ‘I wish we had more time, that we could return to how things were over the summer as well.’

‘I leave for Kent this Saturday,’ Victor informed him hopefully, ‘You know... You could come too. My parents would love to have you. Or if not right away, then any time over the vacation. We don’t do anything big for Christmas, just dinner at home, but... I would love it if you wanted to join us.’

Sherlock sighed, ‘Unfortunately, Christmas is always a big production for my family, so I will undoubtedly be forced to attend,’ he said, cringing at the very thought of the gala his parents always hosted, ‘Also, I’m not sure what Liam has planned. But I will try Victor, I swear to you, I will try my hardest to come out and see you while you are there.’

Victor sighed as well, and nodded, as if he understood that that was all he could reasonably ask or expect.

~*~

Sherlock returned home late that night, exhausted and disgusted. He had decided to brave the shops, in search of a Christmas gift for Victor, in hopes that he would be able to meet up with him again before he left for Kent at the end of the week. It had been an indescribably painful experience; the sounds and sights and press of people jostling around him was overwhelming, but at least in the end, his venture had proved to not be in vain. He emerged from a high-end art supply store clutching the most beautiful engraved wooden box full jars and jars of deep, rich pigments that Victor could use to mix his own paints. At Sherlock’s insistence, the shopkeeper had engraved several music notes into the lid — the first few notes of the song he had written for Sherlock. It was sentimental and made Sherlock’s cheeks flush at the very notion, but he knew Victor would be thrilled.

When he entered the flat, he was unsurprised to find Liam sitting on the sofa with two men Sherlock hadn’t met before. He carefully set his packages down, and shrugged his coat off before hanging it in the closet, and turning back to the room.

‘Gentlemen,’ he greeted Liam’s guests, and made his way over to Liam, and perched on the arm of the sofa. Liam laid a possessive hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, and used his other hand to pull Sherlock down for a kiss.

‘Sherlock, this is Bill and Stephen, two of my mates from the office,’ Liam explained, carding his free hand through Sherlock’s hair. ‘We were just about to have drinks if you don’t mind serving. Three scotches, neat.’

‘Of course, Liam,’ Sherlock agreed dutifully, and made his way to the bar to make everyone’s drinks. He returned and handed each man their glass before settling back into the arm of the sofa next to Liam. He looked at Liam from beneath his lashes, and asked quietly, ‘Is there anything else you would like me to do for your guests, Liam, or shall I head to bed?’

Liam grinned broadly, and stroked Sherlock’s arm with the hand that was not holding his glass, ‘You’re too good to me, Sherlock. No, I think we’re all set for now, so if you want to go relax, feel free. I’ll be in in a bit.’

‘Okay,’ Sherlock said, privately relieved to not have to perform tonight, ‘Good night Bill, Stephen.’ He slipped as quickly as possible down the hall before anyone could change their mind.

~*~

It was a few hours later when Sherlock was woken by Liam sliding into their bed. He didn’t open his eyes, but rolled closer to Liam’s side, searching for his familiar weight against the mattress, waiting for Liam to throw a possessive arm over his body. What he didn’t expect, was another weight sliding in from his, Sherlock’s side.

‘Liam...?’ He asked sleepily, trying to sit up, but then there were hands all over him — some pinning his shoulders to the mattress while his mouth was pillaged in a sloppy kiss rank with the bitter taste of scotch, some reaching down, tearing his pyjama bottoms off his hips, and flinging the covers back, leaving him completely exposed. He tried to fight back against the assault, but then felt something sharp piece the crook of his elbow, and he went lax for a moment before feeling the fire spread through his veins.

More coke, then. So far he’d only snorted it, like he’d done the first night, but he was familiar enough with the side effects to know the second it entered his bloodstream. The injection was new, but the electric, brilliant sensation of the stimulant coursing through his body was wonderfully familiar. He relaxed under the onslaught of hands on his body, and let out a quiet groan.

‘Okay, Liam, okay,’ he murmured, still not opening his eyes, ‘It’s okay.’ He bent his legs at the knees, planting his feet against the mattress, leaving himself spread obscenely open for whoever it was that was now in the bed with him.

Laughter came from all around, echoing hauntingly in his heavy head, and someone muttered, ‘Such a beautiful slut. Always chasing oblivion,’ and the voices laughed again. Sherlock would have felt ashamed, but at that moment, someone took his cock in hand, and was stroking him root to tip, and all he could do was writhe in wanton abandon, and moan throatily as he thrust up into the warm hand.

‘Lube?’ Someone asked, and then Sherlock heard the sound of a bottle being flipped open, and moments later, an unfamiliar cockhead was pressing insistently against his entrance. It breached him painfully — it was quite large — and wasted no time driving home until Sherlock felt the tickle of hair pressed against his arsecheeks. The respite was short-lived, however, because moments later, whoever it was was fucking him without remorse, and his head bounced relentlessly off the headboard.

The assault lasted only a few moments before he heard a guttural cry, and felt the stranger’s orgasm pulse inside of him, only to be replaced by another cock that pistoned in and out of him just as ruthlessly. He barely had time to adjust to the new girth and feel before he felt the new intruder stiffen and come inside him as well.

Both couplings took less than ten minutes. He hadn’t even fully woken up.

‘Sherlock?’ He heard someone — probably Liam — ask huskily, ‘Do you want to come?’

‘No,’ he mumbled sleepily, ‘Tired. Just fuck me and go away.’

More laughter. ‘Well if you insist,’ Liam said with a chuckle, and entered Sherlock slowly. The burn of it was fantastic, and after a few thrusts, despite himself, Sherlock was panting and moaning as he rocked back against him.

A few minutes later, his orgasm was ripping through him, white hot, and nearly painful with its force. Liam followed suit a moment later.

‘Good boy,’ he whispered, kissing Sherlock’s brow, and running what felt like a damp flannel over Sherlock’s abdomen, cleaning him off, ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Okay, Liam,’ Sherlock agreed, and rolled over, reaching blindly for the covers that were placed back over him seconds later.

He buried his face in his pillow, ignoring the ache in his arse, and fell back into a deep, deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mslilylashes


	5. Part V — 17-25 December 1996

PART V

_I'll bite my tongue and hold my breath_  
_Find my way out of this mess_  
_Cause I don't know, if you'll let go and fall with me_  
_So I'm climbing out of love_  
_Yeah, I'm climbing out of love_  
  
17 DECEMBER 1996

The Trevor house looked as though the North Pole had relocated to Kent, and then exploded all over the place. The foyer was a sight to behold — plush green garlands snaked their way up the banisters of the front staircase, and fairy lights twinkled merrily from every conceivable corner. An enormous Christmas tree had been erected in the sitting room, and it was veritably dripping with tinsel and cheer. By all rights, Victor should have been swept right up in the holiday spirit like a holliest jolliest of elves, but this year he found he just couldn’t muster the energy.

A few days after he returned home, his Mum found him sprawled on the sofa in exactly the same position he had been in since he’d unpacked. She came over to sit next to him, nudging his legs gently until he slid them off the sofa to make room for her.

‘Why so glum, Mr Scrooge?’ She asked lightly, leaning back against the sofa, and folding her arms across her chest, ‘You haven’t been this put out at Christmastime since the year you found our your granddad was the one dressing up as Father Christmas on Christmas Eve.

‘It’s nothing, Mum,’ Victor said blandly, staring at the ceiling in the perfect imitation of a very Sherlock-esque sulk, ‘Just not into it this year.’

‘Will Sherlock be spending the holiday here?’ Victor’s Mum asked, a twinkle in her eye, ‘I’m sure we can ensure there is some strategically placed mistletoe throughout the house for you boys.’

‘_Mum_,’ Victor groaned, ‘You know, some mothers want to know absolutely nothing about their kids’ dating lives.’

‘But lucky you, Victor, you have such a cool and progressive mother that she is so interested and accepting of your love interest that she is just dying to know when your handsome beau will be gracing us with his presence. Dad and I even got him a little something under the tree,’ she said, leaning into Victor, and jostling him a bit to get him to smile. 

Instead, it had quite the opposite effect, and Victor suddenly found a very large lump in his throat that he tried mightily to ignore. He gritted his teeth for a long moment before saying, ‘I think Sherlock has other plans for Christmas, Mum. I don’t think he’ll be able to make it out.’ His voice caught in his throat, and he covered his face with his hands for a long moment, trying to clear his eyes of tears.

‘Oh, love,’ Victor’s Mum said, kissing his cheek, and stroking his hair, ‘Oh, Vic. What happened? Did you two...?’

‘No, Mum, it’s... It’s complicated,’ Victor said, his chest feeling like it was full of pins and needles, ‘We didn’t have a falling out or anything. It’s just... It’s so complicated, Mum, it’s horrible.’

‘Tell me,’ she instructed gently, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and pulling him to her, ‘You two love each other, it can’t be all that bad.’

‘I never said I loved him,’ Victor protested in surprise, ‘And he’s certainly never said it to me. And Mum... It’s pretty bad. And I don’t know what to do.’

‘You’re not in trouble, are you, Victor?’ His Mum asked, suddenly very serious, ‘Should I grab Dad? Are you okay?’

‘No, don’t get Dad,’ Victor pleaded, ‘I’m not in trouble. I’m okay. It’s Sherlock that’s not okay. He... He’s got a boyfriend, Mum, and... And he’s a real wanker. He hurts him.’ He glanced over at his Mum cautiously, unsure of how she would take the idea of Victor being ‘the other man’ in Sherlock’s relationship.

That part of his confession didn’t seem to phase her in the slightest. She pulled back a bit, and her eyebrows knit together in concern. ‘What do you mean, he hurts him?’ She asked, her voice low, ‘Victor, do you mean he abuses Sherlock? How do you know?’

‘He leaves marks all over him, or lets his friends do the same. I’ve seen them with my own eyes, that’s why Sherlock used to always wear those long sleeve dress shirts, even in the summer,’ Victor explained, and he saw realisation dawn in his Mum’s eyes the same way it had when he’d realised the reason for Sherlock’s unusual dress. He continued, the words he’d avoided for so long now tumbling from his mouth, ‘Sherlock’s said before, too, that his boyfriend hurts him, or... Or rapes him. Or forces Sherlock to have sex with his friends. He’s killing him, Mum, he just got Sherlock hooked on cocaine, and Sherlock keeps taking it because he says that’s the only time sex doesn’t hurt.’

‘Victor, these are some pretty serious accusations you’re making,’ his Mum said quietly, ‘And you know as a nurse, I’m morally obligated obligated to report any suspicion of abuse. So I need to know... Are you absolutely sure?’

Victor’s heart sank. Reporting any of this confession would only make things worse of Sherlock; and he was fairly certain that the betrayal of Sherlock’s confidence would utterly destroy things between them.

‘Please, Mum, _please_ don’t say anything. Not yet. Let me talk to Sherlock first, if he ever gets out here. Please. I don’t know how his boyfriend would react if anyone else found out,’ Victor all but begged, and his mother sighed, and squeezed him tight.

‘I have to talk to Dad about this, Vic, and together we’ll decide what to do,’ she said firmly. Victor opened his mouth in protest, but she barrelled on, ‘I know you’re grown, and I know you think you boys can handle this on your own, but this is a really big deal. Especially if you say now Sherlock’s boyfriend has him mixed up with hard drugs. You know we’ve always tried to let you handle your own problems, but sometimes we need to be the parents and do what we feel is best for you, and that includes helping the people in your life you love. As much as you don’t want to watch Sherlock go down this path, I don’t want you to have to watch it happen. You can be angry with me, and that’s fair. But I hope you will at least try to understand.’

Victor closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his chest, and nodded.

‘I do understand, Mum,’ he said finally, and leaned hard into her embrace. 

They sat like that for the rest of the afternoon.

~*~

25 DECEMBER 1996

Christmas morning came and went. Victor tried mightily to get into the Christmas spirit for his parents’ sake, but as each present disappeared from beneath the tree to be given to its recipient, he found his gaze focussed steadily on two lone packages that he knew would not be claimed that morning, or possibly not at all. One was a beautifully wrapped red and gold oblong box from Victor’s parents with Sherlock’s name on it that Victor’s Mum stoutly refused to reveal what was inside. The other was a square box, wrapped in the yellowed pages of an old chemistry book that Victor had found at a charity shop. Both gifts sat, untouched, all morning, until they were the last two packages left under the tree.

Once the presents had been opened, and Jonathan had helped their Mum collect the discarded wrappings, everyone retreated to their own rooms to relax a bit before Christmas dinner. Victor slunk back to his bedroom, and laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling for a long while before a quiet knock sounded from the door.

‘Come in,’ he called blandly, not bothering to get up.

Moments later, his father entered quietly into his room. Victor sighed, and rolled onto his side so he was facing his father, but made no other move to welcome conversation.

‘How’s it going, Vic?’ His father asked quietly, coming over to sit next to Victor on the bed. Victor snorted, and his father chuckled quietly, and laid a hand on Victor’s shoulder, ‘Yeah, I know. Stupid question. Mom filled me in on everything.... Sounds like things are going pretty awful then, huh?’

‘That’s putting it mildly, Dad,’ Victor said tiredly, ‘I’m sorry for ruining Christmas. I just can’t... I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right to celebrate and be festive. Is Mum mad?’

‘Of course not,’ his father replied, ‘She understands what has you so preoccupied. She just feels badly that she can’t do more to help. We both do. I think we need to all sit down and figure out what the best course of action is to help Sherlock — and you — because the situation is not healthy for anyone involved.’

‘I just know that if Mum tries to report what I’ve told her, things will get a hundred times worse for him,’ Victor said, anxiety creeping up his chest, ‘The things he told me, he said in confidence, and from the sounds of it, his boyfriend is very concerned with his reputation and how he is perceived. Any threat to that would undoubtedly cause him to react badly.’

‘We have to do something, Vic,’ his father said gently, ‘Not just in a professional context, but morally as well. We can’t sit by and let this continue without trying to help Sherlock. But we understand that this has put you in a difficult position as well, so Mum and I decided that the next time he comes to visit, the four of us need to sit down and discuss things, and we will go from there. And if he isn’t able to make it out here before term begins again, we will come into Oxford and meet with you two there.’

‘Okay, Dad, that sounds... That’s great,’ Victor said quietly, his appreciation and love for his parents threatening to overwhelm him, ‘Thank you. Really, thank you.’

‘We love you, son,’ his father said seriously, pulling Victor into a tight embrace, ‘And we’re quite fond of Sherlock as well. So you let us know the next time he’s planning on visiting, and we’ll make sure we set some time aside to speak with him. Anything we can do to help, we will.’

‘Thank you,’ Victor said again, feeling better than he had in days. His father nodded, and exited his room, closing the door quietly behind him.

~*~

After his discussion with his father, much of Victor’s anxiety was alleviated, and he found he could finally relax. He wandered over to his piano, where he sat for a long while, absentmindedly playing a few short melodies he had stuck in his head, and debating whether he wanted to begin a new composition. So engrossed with his task was he, that when the telephone in his room rang shrilly, he jumped, almost causing the bench to topple over. He grinned at the memory of what happened the las time he’d knocked it over, while he walked over to his bedside table, and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’ He answered, wondering who would be calling on Christmas so close to dinner time.

‘Victor?’ A familiar voice asked uncertainly. Victor broke into a huge smile, and laid back on his bed.

‘Hey, Sherlock’ he said softly, clutching the phone to his ear as though his life depended on it, ‘How are you? I miss you, you know.’

He heard a burst of static as Sherlock exhaled forcefully, ‘I miss you too,’ he murmured, ‘I thought I might have gotten to see you before you left; I have a gift for you that I really wanted to give you.’

‘I have something for you as well,’ Victor said, a definite note of longing in his voice, ‘How is your Christmas? Is everything all right? 

‘Christmas,’ Sherlock remarked with a derisive sniff, ‘What a spectacle, especially the way my family does it. I’m hid in the hall closet with the telephone right now, just to get away from the hullabaloo.’

Victor chuckled, picturing Sherlock hiding in a dark closet, surrounded by coats and umbrellas and wellie boots. ‘I’m sorry it doesn’t sound like you’re having a good time. How are your parents treating you?’

‘Like the bane of their existence,’ Sherlock drawled into the phone, and Victor could almost see him glaring at the ceiling, his long legs stretched on the floor before him as he slouched against the wall, ‘They want to know why my marks have slipped, and if I didn’t get a haircut before I showed up simply to embarrass them, or if it’s the current fashion. They want to know why I haven’t lined up an accounting or office job for six months from now when we graduate, and keep insisting that it is not too late to declare a respectable field of study rather than frivolous nonsense such as chemistry. They have compared my shortcomings to Mycroft’s successes on no fewer than nine occasions thus far, and pointedly mentioned Liam’s absence three times and counting.’

‘Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry,’ Victor told him truthfully. He loved coming home to his parents’ warm and inviting home, and glowed with pride every time they expressed their appreciation of his accomplishments, even if they didn’t quite understand them themselves. How hurtful and cold it must be to not have that from one’s own parents. He frowned suddenly, something else from Sherlock’s rant catching his attention, and he pondered briefly on how best to get clarification.

‘Did... Did you say you’re there alone?’ He asked finally, trying to sound casual, ‘I mean... Without... You know, _him_?’

Sherlock sighed again, the sharp analogue noise making Victor wince, ‘Yes, alone, Victor,’ he replied, and Victor could sense Sherlock’s annoyance all the way through the phone, ‘Liam... He is spending the holiday with his own family. We’ve never gone to one house or the other together... I thought this year we might, but he declined the offer to join me here. Can’t say I blame him, though it would have been nice to have someone to run interference.’

It was like being socked in the chest, and Victor did his best to disguise his hurt by saying, ‘That’s too bad,’ but not managing more than that. How utterly unfair it was that that bastard was constantly given chances that Victor so desperately wanted, but chose to callously disregard them as though Sherlock was merely an inconvenience or afterthought. He sighed himself then, trying to angle his breath away from the phone to save Sherlock the pain of having that noise in his ear. ‘I would have run interference for you if you had wanted me to,’ he said quietly before he could stop himself.

The silence on the other line lasted so long that for a moment Victor wondered if the call had disconnected, but then he heard Sherlock say tightly, ‘I know,’ in a voice that sounded both strained and small. He heard Sherlock shift, and something rustle before he continued, ‘I wish you were here. No, that’s a lie. I wish I was there. I should have said fuck my family and their expectations, and ran off to Kent to be with you.‘

‘You’re welcome any time,’ Victor reminded him wanting more than anything for Sherlock to accept the invitation, but knowing it was almost certainly wishful thinking.

Sure enough, Sherlock let out a quiet groan, and reluctantly said, ‘I can’t get away. There’s about fifty more useless traditions at which my presence is demanded, and another good eight or nine opportunities for my parents to remind me that my brother is the preferred child. Maybe... Maybe soon, though, if that’s alright with you. You’ll be there for the duration of the break?’

‘I would love that,’ Victor said truthfully, ‘I’ll be here until a few day before the new term starts. Certainly through New Years at least. Maybe... Maybe you could come in for your birthday? If you don’t have plans?’ He bit his tongue, not wanting to mention the inevitable discussion between Sherlock and his parents just yet.

‘I will certainly endeavour to, Victor, I promise,’ Sherlock said, then it sounded as though he was covering the mouthpiece of the telephone, and Victor heard a faint curse, and some agitated words too muffled to make out before Sherlock’s voice was again in his ear, this time sounding very cross.

‘My fat arse brother has just informed me that my presence is being demanded at the dinner table, and that it is my turn to lead the family in saying grace. You wouldn’t happen to know any hymnals for the Church of Satan off the top of your head, would you?’ Sherlock asked, sounding incredibly petulant and put out. Victor laughed out loud.

‘Sorry, no,’ he said, shaking his head even though he knew Sherlock couldn’t see him, ‘I’ll let you go then. But think about coming for a visit if you can. I do miss you quite a lot,’ he sighed, ‘Happy Christmas, Sherlock.’

‘Happy Christmas, Victor,’ Sherlock replied softly, and Victor distinctly heard a note of sadness in his voice, before the quiet _click_ of the line disconnecting.

Victor replaced the phone in the cradle, and stared at it a long moment before forcing himself to rise from his spot on the bed. Just at that moment, he heard his mother call for him to come join the dinner table.

Somehow, he felt even less like celebrating than he did before the call.


	6. Part VI — 25-26 December 1996

PART VI

_If you know that this song is for you_   
_And you're already feeling it too_   
_Don't let me get too far_   
_I'd rather we take this fall_   
_But I’ve gotta start_

25 DECEMBER 1996

Christmas was the nightmare Sherlock had anticipated it being, even with the help of the baggie of cocaine he had stashed in the inner pocket of his overnight bag. His initial plan had been to use it sparingly, since there were presumably to be no sexual performances demanded of him during his time away from Oxford, but the stifling oppression of Holmes House had been enough to get him to cave in within the first hour of being there.

There was a reason Sherlock chose to maintain a permanent flat in Oxford, rather than returning to Holmes House in Brighton when school was not in session, and that reason was that he and his parents ‘_Did Not Get On_’, as Mycroft had taken to so delicately calling the strain on their relationship.

Truthfully, it had begun years ago, when Sherlock proved to be unwilling to play the high society game that the children of his parents’ friends seemed so adept at playing. He had no time for social niceties, refused to curtail his contempt for pointless galas and benefits, and was all too happy to loudly deduce who in the aristocratic set was screwing the gardener, which was especially entertaining when it was both the husband _and_ wife, something that he had revealed on more than one occasion. All this meant that Sherlock was quite unwelcome in most social gatherings, which was quite all right by him. Needless to say, his parents were not quite so receptive to his disinterest in all the things that made up their very way of life.

Then, of course, there was the fact that he had chosen to attend Oxford instead of Cambridge — the first Holmes man in six generations to do so. Saint Mycroft had attended Cambridge, and graduated with honours, a fact that Mummy and Father never failed to mention when given the chance.

It never failed to surprise Sherlock, however, that despite their disdain for every other facet of his life, his parents positively _fawned_ over his relationship with Liam — Mummy in particular. Sherlock had originally been sceptical of revealing that he was in a relationship with another man, but somehow Liam’s charm and social status had been enough to waylay any misgivings his parents may have had. On the rare occasions they did speak on the phone, Mummy always made a point to ask about his ‘_handsome young man_’, and Father would ask if Sherlock had ‘_finally decided to make something of himself_’ and join Liam in the world of business banking.

Even Mycroft seemed to be impressed with Liam, and would make the occasional comment about how ‘_at least he could make Sherlock presentable to polite society_’, whatever the hell that meant.

It made Sherlock want to _scream_.

He had asked — begged, really — Liam to come to the Holmes Family Christmas, but Liam had stoutly refused, stating his own family obligations as an excuse. In truth, Sherlock had been hoping for an invitation to the Harringtons’ for the holiday so he could avoid his family altogether, but none had been forthcoming. He’d even tried to convince Liam just to come down the Saturday before Christmas for the annual Christmas Gala that his parents always hosted, but Liam was unwilling to cut his time with his family short, and in the end, Sherlock had been forced to make a miserable solo appearance.

Sebastian Wilkes and his band of spineless sycophantic followers had been in attendance, and that had been perfectly humiliating. It seemed that Liam’s influence no longer had the effect it once did now that he was no longer a student at Oxford — or perhaps it was that Sherlock’s reputation now superseded it — but either way, Sherlock had been subjected to crass, cruel whispers for most of the evening, with one of Sebastian’s more bold lackeys going so far as to grab Sherlock’s arse and make crude gesticulations when the adult weren’t watching. It almost made Sherlock miss the days of being forced to perform his ‘_little trick_’, because at least then the abuse hadn’t seemed quite so personal. 

Christmas morning with Mummy, Father, Mycroft and Grand-Mère had been tense, but tolerable. Grand-Mère had come in from Paris, and Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed spending time with her, particularly outside the company of the rest of the family. She was his mother’s mother, and built of different stuff than the Holmes side of the family. Having been born within an arm’s reach of the First World War, and becoming a young widowed mother during the Second, she had a constitution that was eons stronger than the blue-blooded Holmes, who had always lived in sprawling estates and had a small army of household staff to do their bidding. Sherlock loved Grand-Mère with a fierceness he reserved for no other person on this planet.

After an awkward morning of opening presents (a brooch for Mummy, a mahogany pipe for father, a sleek bamboo handled umbrella for Mycroft, a pair of antique gardening shears for Grand-Mère), there were a few blissful hours without any familial obligation before the formal dinner began. This was an event for the entire extended Holmes family, and Sherlock hated it with every fibre of his being.

It was during this blessed respite from festivities that he crept down the hall as quietly as he could, and slipped into Grand-Mère’s room down the guest wing of Holmes House. Though it was by far the smallest of guest rooms, he loved it the most.

He knocked softly on the door before cracking it open a few inches, ‘Grand-Mère?’ He called quietly, not wanting to disturb her if she was resting before dinner.

‘_Entrez, mon petit-fils_!’ Came her gentle voice from the lounge, and he gladly obeyed.

‘_Salut_, Grand-Mère,’ Sherlock greeted her, almost shyly, ‘_Joyeux Noel_.’

‘Happy Christmas, my love,’ she replied in her soft, accented English that brought up more feelings of home than Holmes House ever would, ‘Thank you so much for the beautiful gift. They are perfect for my collection.’

‘I’m glad you like them,’ Sherlock told her truthfully, ‘Nothing ever seems quite good enough.’

‘Anything from you is more than good enough, Sherlock,’ Grand-Mère said, taking his hand in hers, ‘Because I know the care you put into choosing it, you thoughtful boy. Now tell me, how are things?’

Sherlock hesitated, and this was not lost on his grandmother. She glared at him from behind her silver spectacles, and tilted her head to the side.

‘Now don’t you lie to me, child,’ she said warningly, ‘We are cut from the same cloth, you and I. I know when that beautiful mind of yours is brewing up a fabrication.’

‘I wasn’t going to lie, Grand-Mère,’ Sherlock lied, and then snorted when his grandmother rolled her eyes at him. He sighed, ‘Things are... Not great, honestly. It’s been really hard, actually.’

‘Is it university that’s hard, or life with that young man of yours?’ She asked pointedly, and Sherlock winced.

‘Both?’ He said uncertain of how much he should actually disclose, ‘University is... Well, you know. Dull. And tedious. But I’m nearly done with it. And Liam... Well, things are changing, and I don’t quite know what to do about it.’

‘Life is change, love,’ Grand-Mère replied bluntly, ‘Like the sea. And you can either adapt to the tide, or let it wash you away.’

‘I know, Grand-Mère,’ Sherlock sighed, ‘It’s just that I wish sometimes that I could just make things stop, so I had a chance to catch up.’ He was silent for a moment, and hesitated again before taking a deep breath, ‘Grand-Mère, if I tell you something, can it stay between us?’

‘Of course, _mon petit-fils_,’ she replied seriously, still grasping his hand in her butter-soft, paper-thin grip.

‘I’ve been seeing someone else, without... Well, without telling Liam. Without telling anyone, actually,’ Sherlock admitted, the words sticking in his throat, ‘Things with Liam were... Not good, for awhile. And then I met someone. And I know it’s horrible, and selfish, and I know Mummy and Father would be mortified, but I... I don’t know what to do. Victor —that’s the other... The person I met — he’s... Grand-Mère, he’s so wonderful, and patient, and caring. And I just... I don’t know what to do,’ he repeated lamely.

Grand-Mère’s eyes burned into his, and it took every ounce of strength he had not to look away, but after a moment or two, he was horrified to find his eyes filling with tears. His grandmother’s gaze softened, and she pulled him into a warm embrace.

‘Love, a cough, and smoke never remain silent, my love,’ she murmured into his hair, ‘You know this will all come out eventually, so your best course of action would be to make a decision sooner rather than later. Don’t you worry about what your mother and father have to say. Worry about what your heart has to say.’

‘Sometimes I wish I didn’t have one. I hate feeling like this,’ Sherlock muttered in frustration, angry tears still blurring his vision. His grandmother just chuckled, and held him tighter.

‘Having a heart — even one that hurts — is the very best part about being human, Sherlock,’ she said fondly, ‘You’ll figure it out, and it will be the right choice, because I know you. You are clever and kind, and I am always proud of you. You have a beautiful heart, and it deserves to be loved and cherished. Go with the person who understands that, and spends every day trying to prove it to you.

‘_Merci_, Grand-Mère,’ Sherlock said thickly, and buried his face in her shoulder, and there they stayed until Sherlock was ready to face being human again.

~*~

26 DECEMBER 1996

Finally, blissfully, Christmas was over, and Boxing Day had arrived. More importantly, the day Sherlock could leave Holmes House, and return to Oxford had arrived. He bid his parents and Mycroft a stiff farewell, kissed his grandmother on the cheek and promised to write, and then loaded himself into a cab bound for the nearest train station.

The train ride back to Oxford was relatively uneventful, though it did leave Sherlock a solid, uninterrupted chunk of time to think about what his grandmother had said. She hadn’t been wrong; it was only a matter of time before the whole situation between Sherlock, Liam, and Victor blew up, especially since it appeared that Liam’s appointments between Sherlock and his guests were apparently common knowledge, judging from how Seb and his cohorts had behaved at the gala. Shame began to smoulder deep in Sherlock’s belly, but a quick trip to the loo to top off his high took care of that as best it could.

By the time the train pulled into the station at Oxford, there wasn’t much that Sherlock gave a damn about anymore, and it was glorious. He gathered his belongings, and exited onto the platform, the cold air feeling like static on his skin, but after being so stifled for so long at his parents’ house, it was a welcome change.

He caught a cab back to his flat, and was both disappointed and relieved to find it empty. He had thought perhaps Liam would beat him home, but it appeared he was still with his family. On one hand, he didn’t much want to be alone with his thoughts; on the other, he knew time to contemplate was exactly what he needed, uncomfortable though it may be.

Dropping his bags next just past the entryway, he threw himself down on the sofa, and sat for a few moments before he started to feel to jittery, and instead began pacing the sitting room floor, but that didn’t feel quite right either. When he finally caught sight of his violin case propped in the corner, he descended on it like a dog on a bone.

Quickly, he pulled his violin from its case, and ran his rosin up the bow before giving it an experimental pull across the strings. Satisfied, he played a few quick scales, then segued into a few simple melodies, before embarking on his latest project: _Winter_ from Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_. It was frantic, and harsh, and reluctantly hopeful, and it fit Sherlock’s mood exactly.

_We tread the icy path slowly and cautiously,_  
_for fear of tripping and falling._   
_Then turn abruptly, slip, crash on the ground and,_   
_rising, hasten on across the ice lest it cracks up._   
_We feel the chill north winds course through the home_   
_despite the locked and bolted doors..._   
_this is winter, which nonetheless_   
_brings its own delights._

A short while later, once he was satisfied he had become at least proficient in the short concerti, he found himself piecing together several other series of notes, some sounding playful and lighthearted, some sounding desperate and needy, and some sounding downright mournful and heartbreaking. It was only after he’d unconsciously been at it for over an hour that realisation hit him like a ton of bricks.

He was _composing_, and what’s more, he was composing a piece about _Victor_.

That thought alone was enough to make him lower his instrument from his chin, and sit back down on the sofa.

It was then that another realisation came to him, though this time it washed over him gently, starting somewhere low in his chest, but then radiating outward until it enveloped him in a warm sense of surety, as if the thought was a soft blanket he was wrapping around himself. As if it was the plush bedclothes he had pulled from Victor’s bed this past summer when he’d curled up on the floor, and listened to Victor pour his heart through his hands, and play the song he’d composed for Sherlock. 

He thought about what Grand-Mère had said, about finding the person who spent their time striving to prove that his heart was worth being cared for — that _he_ was worth being cherished.

It was Victor. It had _always_ been Victor. It _would_ always be Victor. It was time to make a stand.

It was _amazing_.

It was _terrifying_.

And now that he knew what his choice was, he just had to figure out what to do next.


	7. Part VII — 27 December 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: situational bondage done wrong (again) — NOT safe, sane, and dubious consent at best. Liam is a manipulative bastard.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has given kudos or commented the last few weeks — sorry for being a bit off the grid... Life has been kicking my arse. Love to you all, though, thanks for getting me through <3
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART VII

27 DECEMBER 1996

Liam came home the day after Boxing Day, and by then, Sherlock’s resolve had already begun to falter. By the time Liam walked in the door, and set his travelling bags down, it had all but crumbled, especially when Liam sighed and extended his arms to Sherlock, pulling him into a tight embrace.

‘God, I missed you,’ Liam said huskily into Sherlock’s hair, ‘What a chore it was, seeing everyone, keeping them all happy, when all I wanted was to be here with you.’

‘I missed you too, Liam,’ Sherlock murmured, not entirely truthfully. Liam pulled back from Sherlock then, and took his face in his hands.

‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to your family’s celebration, love,’ he said, kissing Sherlock’s forehead. The intimacy of the gesture made Sherlock’s heart clench painfully. Liam continued, ‘I just couldn’t skip my family’s events, just as I know you couldn’t have skipped yours. I hope you still had a good time? How was the gala?’

‘Hateful,’ Sherlock replied vehemently, and Liam laughed. Sherlock smiled despite himself, ‘Sebastian Wilkes and his group were there... They were... Well, I’m glad it’s over.’

‘Sebastian fucking Wilkes,’ Liam repeated with a snort, ‘I can’t stand that arsehole. I’ll bet you anything that ten years from now, he’s the same worthless arse-kissing, limp-dicked piece of filth he is today, but stuck in a shit marriage, and blowing his boss to get weekends off.’

Sherlock actually laughed out loud, suddenly feeling a hundred times better about the embarrassing scene at the gala, and when Liam joined in a moment later, he thought maybe he had been too hasty making grand decisions after all.

~*~

Once Liam had changed and unpacked, they had ordered Chinese takeaway, and curled up together on the sofa, watching some nonsense film that neither of them were too invested in. Liam had his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock leaned hungrily into the touch. When the film was finally over, Liam stood and stretched, and extended a hand to Sherlock, who was still sat on the sofa.

‘Bed?’ He asked suggestively, a twinkle in his eye. Sherlock nodded mutely, and let himself be led to the bedroom. Liam pushed him gently down to the bed, and kissed him urgently, ‘God, I missed you,’ he said again, nipping lightly at Sherlock’s jaw and neck, making Sherlock groan in appreciation.

‘I missed you too,’ Sherlock said for the second time that night, and this time he almost meant it.

Liam pulled Sherlock into a sitting position, and tugged at his shirt. Sherlock lifted his arms obligingly, and closed his eyes as Liam laved kisses across his chest, sucking at his nipples, and running his hands lightly up Sherlock’s sides. Sherlock laid back on the bed, and arched up, into Liam’s touch.

‘You’re so beautiful like this,’ Liam murmured, working his way down to Sherlock’s jeans, and tugging the button and zip open, ‘How the hell did I get so lucky?’

‘You spent four days a week in a damn chemistry lab, remember?’ Sherlock replied, a little snarkily, but Liam just laughed.

‘Best time I ever wasted,’ he said as he tapped Sherlock’s hip to get him to lift up so he could slip his jeans and boxers off. Once Sherlock was fully nude, Liam gave him a long once over, his eyes dark with desire.

‘I know we said no gifts this year, but I saw something that made me think of you, and I couldn’t resist,’ Liam said lowly, and something in his voice made the hair on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand up. He couldn’t tell if it was from arousal or dread.

‘I... I didn’t get you anything, though,’ he admitted shakily, ‘I’m sorry, Liam, I thought...’

‘I’m sure that big beautiful brain of yours will think of something,’ Liam said with a smile. He reached down under the bed, and pulled up an opaque black bag that Sherlock recognised as coming from a local sex shop. ‘Here,’ Liam said, thrusting it into Sherlock’s hands, ‘Take a peek.’

With extreme trepidation, Sherlock reached into the bag, and his fingers immediately caught on something cold and metal. He frowned slightly, and pulled a medieval looking contraption from the bag that was vaguely in the shape of a flaccid penis. Next came a what looked like an executioner’s hood that laced up the back, and only had an opening for the mouth, and two small slits for the nostrils, and then a gag that looked very similar to the O-ring that Liam had gotten him when they’d first begun experimenting with bondage, but this one had a solid ball in the center, rather than an open ring. The final item in the bag was a much smaller baggie, full of what Sherlock assumed was more cocaine.

‘It’s like a care package,’ Liam said with a snort, ‘Made especially with you in mind.’

‘Liam, I...’ Sherlock started, not really sure what he was trying to say, ‘I don’t... I... Can we just do it, you know, without all this? Like just us?’ He snuck a peek up at Liam, whose expression immediately clouded over, his cheeks flushing pink.

‘Oh. Well, okay, I guess, if that’s what you want,’ Liam said coolly, wrenching the items from Sherlock’s hands, and shoving them back into the bag, ‘I just thought... Well, I saw all this and thought of you, but I should have known that you... Whatever, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have bothered; my fault.’ He pulled away from Sherlock abruptly, and rose from the bed, ‘I’m going to shower,’ He said flatly, and stalked from the room, leaving Sherlock naked and unsteady.

Sherlock threw himself back down on the bed, and actually growled with frustration. It had been an absolutely wonderful evening, just the two of them tucked away from the rest of the world. Liam had been funny and kind, and it was a side of him that Sherlock missed very much. 

He scrubbed his hands over his face, and reached over, and picked up the metal penis contraption again, turning it over in his hands. He didn’t quite understand what the point of it was, and it looked very intimidating, and not at all pleasant. A closer inspection showed that it had a locking mechanism on the very top of the shaft, with two small silver keys protruding from the lock. He unlocked it slowly, and winced at the very idea of putting that _thing_ on his most sensitive area.

The black hood was easier to stomach, but it still wasn’t something Sherlock would have ever picked out for himself. There were no openings for eye holes, so the person wearing it would be completely in the dark. He ran the material between his fingers; it was thick and stiff, with no give to the fabric. It was clear that once it was put on, sight, sound, and breathing would be a challenge. Especially if the gag was also used.

Sherlock sat up, and picked up the last item in his ‘care package’. He hadn’t indulged in as much cocaine as he normally did over the holiday, because he hadn’t seen a reason to, aside from the awful tedium of the gala and Christmas morning, but now that it was literally at his fingertips, he could feel his body screaming for a hit. He debated with himself briefly, but in the end, the urge was too strong, so he shook some out on the bedside table, and opened the drawer to pull out his razor blade and something to snort it with. He sighed, a bit disgusted with himself, but then bent over, got situated, and inhaled.

As always, that moment when the drugs hit his system was positively radiant. He leaned back slightly, and closed his eyes, just savouring the crackle of it hitting his bloodstream. Somewhere in the background, he heard the shower turn off, and a few moments later, he sensed Liam standing in the doorway.

‘I changed my mind,’ Sherlock said, his eyes still closed, ‘We can try.’ He opened his eyes, and took in Liam’s smirk as he stood leaning in the doorway, towel around his waist.

‘You hit your yes button then, didn’t you?’ He asked, in amusement as he crossed the room to sit on the bed beside Sherlock. He kissed Sherlock’s mouth fiercely, and said, ‘I thought you might, if I gave you some time.’

Sherlock didn’t know what to make of this; he almost felt as though this had been Liam’s plan all along. He shook his head slightly, deciding not to continue down that train of thought, and instead pulled at Liam’s towel. He sank to his knees, and made a show of licking the palm of his hand before wrapping it around Liam’s cock, coaxing him to full hardness.

‘We can _try_,’ he repeated before taking Liam in his mouth. Liam spread his legs, and wound his hands through Sherlock’s hair, and began fucking his mouth slowly, but deeply. Sherlock swallowed hard around him, allowing Liam to plunder his throat in earnest. After a few more minutes, Liam pulled out, and tugged Sherlock’s hair to get him to join him on the bed again.

‘Okay, love, let’s try,’ Liam murmured, and picked up the metal object. He popped the lock open, and reached down to Sherlock’s cock which was only semi-erect. ‘This goes on you,’ he said as he slipped it onto Sherlock. It felt uncomfortable and heavy, but it wasn’t painful.

‘What... What does it do?’ Sherlock asked, and winced slightly, remembering how Liam had reacted when he asked that about the first gag Liam presented him with.

‘It prevents you from getting an erection,’ Liam explained with a smirk, ‘It theoretically keeps you from coming until someone takes it off. And I,’ he said, refastening the lock with a _click_, ‘Am the only one who gets to hold the key.’ He pulled open the top drawer of his bedside table, dropped the keys inside, and firmly pushed it shut.

‘What?!’ Sherlock exclaimed, slightly outraged, ‘Liam, what the _hell_?!’

‘It’s _hot_, Sherlock,’ Liam replied, bringing their faces together, and stopping just shy of kissing Sherlock’s mouth, ‘Knowing that _I_ am the one who controls your pleasure,’ he kissed Sherlock’s lips, and continued, ‘Knowing that _I_ am the one who decides when you get to come,’ he kissed Sherlock’s jaw, ‘Knowing that you stay hard and needy until _I_ say so.’ He kissed Sherlock’s neck, and bit lightly. The sensation shot straight to Sherlock’s groin, and his cock pulsed helplessly against its metal confines. He groaned in frustration, but he could sort of see Liam’s point.

‘Because you’re _mine_, Sherlock. All mine,’ Liam growled, sucking hard on Sherlock’s neck now, and Sherlock yelped, sobbing as the cage felt like it was strangling him.

‘Yours,’ he agreed, panting, ‘All yours, Liam. Always yours.’

‘Good boy. Exactly right,’ Liam said approvingly. He picked up the gag, and held it out to Sherlock, ‘Can I put this on you now? And the hood? It’s called sensory deprivation, so all you focus on is _me_, fucking _you_. Maybe make that brain of yours turn off for once.’

Sherlock had to admit, the idea of having a respite from his own mind sounded incredibly appealing. It was tiresome, to have a brain that was _always on_. It was downright _exhausting_ at times.

‘Okay, Liam,’ he said finally, but pulled back for a moment. ‘But first, do you mind if I...?’ He trailed off, gesturing to the rest of the coke on the nightstand. Liam laughed.

‘By all means, you fucking junkie,’ he said, his tone teasing, even if the words felt a bit like a slap in the face. Sherlock grunted, but then leaned over and snorted another line, and all was well again.

When he sat back up, Liam extended the hood towards him, and slid it over his head. The dark was impenetrable, and the fabric felt stiff against his skin. Liam tightened the ties in the back, pulling it tight against Sherlock’s face. He fought against the feeling of claustrophobia, and opened his mouth obligingly when he felt Liam tap the ball against his lips. It was hard against his tongue, and he tried to swallow several times to suppress his gag reflex. He could feel panic mounting in his chest, and he tried to calm himself by taking several slow breaths in through his nose, but the nostril holes were not lining up quite right. He brought his hands up to adjust the hood, but Liam slapped them away.

‘Stop,’ he instructed, though his voice was muffled from the thickness of the hood, ‘_God_ you’re so hot, Sherlock, if you could only see yourself.’ 

Sherlock didn’t care so much about seeing himself, as he was more concerned with being able to breathe, so he pulled away from Liam’s touch, and brought his hands back up to adjust the hood. Though he finally succeeded, moments later, he felt a vice-like grip on his wrists, yanking his hands down towards his lap.

‘I said _stop_!’ Liam snapped, this time sounding far less indulgent, ‘I can see we’re going to have to do this the hard way.’ He adjusted his grip so he was holding both Sherlock’s wrists in one hand, and Sherlock felt him kneel down and pull something else out from under the bed. A few seconds later, he was pushed onto his stomach, and his wrists were pulled roughly behind him. He felt Liam snap their familiar leather cuffs around them, and secure them together. Sherlock made an unhappy noise deep in his throat, but Liam paid him no heed.

Instead, he grabbed one of Sherlock’s legs, and bent it into a kneeling position. Taking the hint, Sherlock brought the other leg up under him in a matching position, so he was on his knees at the edge of the bed, arse extended towards Liam, and his chest pressed into the mattress, arms immobilised behind him. He turned his head to the side, and did his best to breathe deeply through his nose, though the fabric had shifted again, making it difficult. A few moments later, he felt Liam snapping the other set of cuffs around his ankles, and fastening the spreader bar between them, so he could no longer shift positions, even if he had wanted to. He felt completely helpless and exposed. The position made the cock cage push painfully into his pelvic bone; it had absolutely no trouble keeping him from getting an erection now. Arousal was the very farthest thing from his mind.

He didn’t like it.

Rather than make his brain turn off, instead, it was now shot into hyper-drive, because he felt _everything_, and couldn’t stop conjuring ways he was going to _die_ from asphyxiation, and Liam would never even know. His mind raced with ideas on how to get Liam’s attention, how to get him to release him, but they ran parallel to the horrible, pathetic yearning to give Liam what he wanted, and just do his best to suffer through it. Tears sprang into his eyes, which caused another wave of panic to wash over him, because if he began crying, there was an even greater likelihood of not being able to breath through his nose.

It was at that moment that he felt the press of Liam’s cock against his exposed arse, and moments later, it pushed inside. There had been no warning, no preparation, and through he could feel that Liam had at least used lube, it still _hurt_. He tried to push forward and pull away, but Liam grabbed his hips, and forced him to stay in place until he felt Liam’s pubic hair pressed against his arse. When Liam began to fuck him, Sherlock _screamed_ into his gag, but the sound was muffled, and Liam made no notice of it anyway.

Liam set a steady pace after that, and it was brutal. The stretch and burn of it was not touched in the slightest by the cocaine singing through Sherlock’s veins. He howled against the gag, tears now pooling between his eyes and the hood, and he sniffed frantically trying to clear his nose enough to continue to breath. Liam pushed and pulled him between thrusts, trying to get his arse higher, and his chest lower, and a moment later, Sherlock realised why when Liam hit his prostate, and a spike of pleasure shot straight to his confined cock. It was overwhelming, bordering on painful.

Thankfully, it seemed that the rough coupling was nearing completion, as Liam sped up even more, thrusting erratically. He finally came with a loud groan, gripping Sherlock’s hips tightly, and grinding hard into his arse. Sherlock waited, desperate for Liam to release him from his many confines.

The first to come off were the ankle cuffs and spreader bar, and once freed, Sherlock all but collapsed on on the bed, his legs feeling like jelly. Next were the cuffs around his wrists, and Sherlock wasted no time rolling his shoulders to restore blood flow and mobility, and then he reached for the gag, his fingers scrabbling frantically over the ball in his mouth. Liam laughed as he undid the buckle, and the moment it was free from his mouth, Sherlock opened his jaw wide to stretch out the sore muscles, and greedily sucked in as much air as possible until he was actually panting from the effort. He waited a moment for his breathing and rapidly thundering heart rate to regulate, but after a few moments of being unable to calm down, he realised something was seriously wrong. He pulled desperately at the hood that Liam was working at unlacing, tearing at it when it wasn’t coming off quickly enough.

‘Off, please, Liam, off,’ he begged between gasps. His face still felt wet from his tears, and even though he could now breath through his mouth, it still felt as though he were being suffocated. ‘_Please_, Liam, _help me_.’ He was pulling frantically now, moving his head from side to side and making horrible animal noises when the damned thing wouldn’t come loose.

‘Jesus, Sherlock, I’m trying,’ Liam grunted, ‘You’re thrashing about so much that the ties are all tangled now. Just sit still for another moment while I unknot them.’

Sherlock sobbed into the hood, but tried his very best to keep still, but he couldn’t keep the low keening noise from emanating from somewhere deep in his chest. He felt Liam picking apart what must have been a tight knot at the base of his skull, and he tried to suck in as much air as he could from through his gritted teeth. Finally, blessedly, he felt Liam win the struggle against the ties, and loosen the laces.

The air felt wonderfully cool against his face, and he brought his hands up to clear his eyes and cheeks of the dampness. He forced himself to calm his breathing, then realised that his nose was running, so he reached for a tissue, and blew his nose before turning to Liam who was staring at him, an expression on his face that Sherlock had never seen before. Was that... Could it be _contempt_?

Sherlock opened his mouth, his mind racing for something to say, but it still took him several false starts before he managed a meek ‘Sorry?’, uncertainty causing his shoulders to hunch and eyebrows to raise.

Liam shook his head quickly, and that terrible face was gone, and his usual expression of self satisfied indulgence was back. ‘You okay there, love?’ He asked, but his tone was bordering on sarcastic, and for once the term of endearment did nothing to soothe Sherlock’s upset. ‘Care to tell me what the fuck just happened?’

‘I... I couldn’t breathe?’ Sherlock supplied, though his statement some how curled up at the end, making it sound as though he was asking rather than telling, ‘I... I guess I panicked?’

‘I don’t know what the problem was, Sherlock, the hood has breathing holes and I was right here. If you weren’t enjoying yourself, you should have just said something,’ Liam said, annoyance colouring his voice, ‘I looked it up especially for you, and the guy in the shop said it would be good for someone like you who needs constant redirection to keep you focused on one thing at a time.’ He sighed, ‘Sorry you didn’t like your present. As I said, I just saw it and thought of you. My mistake.’ He stood then, and went to his chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of boxers, leaving Sherlock cold and nude in the bed.

Sherlock wanted to argue that there was literally no way for him to have _just said something_, as he’d been gagged, bound, and blindfolded, but knew it wasn’t worth the row. Instead, he lowered his eyes to the floor, and drew his knees to his chest, ‘I’m sorry Liam,’ he said again, the cock cage digging once again into his pelvic bone painfully.

‘It’s fine, Sherlock,’ Liam replied wearily, and slipped his boxers on before coming back to bed, and yanking the cord on his bedside table lamp, engulfing half the room in darkness, ‘Just go to sleep. It’s late and I’m tired.’ He rolled away, so his back was facing Sherlock, and pulled the covers over him.

Sleep was not something that was going to come to Sherlock any time soon. He sat there a moment longer, hoping that Liam would remember he still had the keys to the damned cage still locked around Sherlock’s cock, but Liam made absolutely no indication he was still awake, though Sherlock knew it typically took him at least fifteen minutes to fall asleep. He debated going around to Liam’s side and getting the keys himself, but wasn’t sure if that would cause an even bigger problem. 

In the end, he bit his lip, pulled on his softest pair of pyjama bottoms, and tried his very best to find a position comfortable enough to allow him to sleep.

He was still awake when the sun rose the following morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so random question... Has anyone here ever gone to 221B Con? I JUST heard of it, and am seriously contemplating checking it out. Would love to hear some feedback on what it’s all about.


	8. Part VIII — 28-30 December 1996

PART VIII

28 DECEMBER 1996

The next morning was... Uncomfortable. Liam was still mutely ignoring Sherlock, and the silence in the flat seemed to swell and smother Sherlock more than that damned hood could ever manage. He still hadn’t had the courage to ask Liam for the keys for the cage still locked around him, so it hung obtrusively between his legs, and was beginning to chafe. He’d tried to use the loo with it on, and had been reduced to having to sit on the toilet, and do his best not to make a mess. He hadn’t been entirely successful, and it was humiliating; he’d had to spend quite a bit of time cleaning both himself and the loo afterwards.

Finally around lunch time, Sherlock could stand the stony silence no longer, and hesitantly went to sit on the sofa next to Liam, who had turned on a talk show, but judging by the way he was glaring at the screen, he wasn’t taking in too much of what they were saying. Sherlock moved in to rest his head against Liam’s shoulder, but Liam folded his arms across his chest, blocking his move.

‘Liam, please,’ Sherlock said quietly, ‘I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful, I really didn’t. I don’t know what happened. I just started having a panic attack, and I didn’t know how to make it stop. I do appreciate that you were thinking of me. And I love you. What can I do to make it up to you?’

‘I don’t know, Sherlock,’ Liam said finally, still not looking at him, ‘It just seems like no matter what I do, it’s always the wrong move with you. Nothing is ever right, nothing is ever good enough. I just don’t know what you want from me. I work and work and work to provide for you, and you’re still not happy.’ He sighed, grabbed the remote, and turned the television off before standing and mumbling, ‘I’m going to go lie down.’

Sherlock watched him go, his heart sinking in his chest, but after a moment, he realised he didn’t hear the bedroom door shut, so there was a chance Liam wouldn’t be opposed to him joining him. He made his way down the hall, and paused in the doorway. Liam was laying on their bed, just staring at the ceiling. After a long moment, he sighed again, and turned to look at Sherlock.

‘Come here,’ he said, unhappiness heavy in his voice, and he extended a hand towards Sherlock. Sherlock crossed the room quickly, and crawled into bed with him, letting himself be pulled into Liam’s embrace.

‘I’m sorry, Liam,’ Sherlock whispered, feeling as though he might cry again, which was absurd, ‘I do appreciate how hard you work. And I am happy with you. I just... Sometimes things go a little too fast for me, I think, and I need time to adjust. Maybe... Maybe we could try... That stuff again sometime, but perhaps not all together? So I can get used to it?’

‘I wish you would have said that in the first place, Sherlock,’ Liam said flatly, though he kept his arms around Sherlock’s chest, so Sherlock thought maybe his anger was fading, ‘All you have to do is speak up. You’re the one who said you wanted to try. I can’t read your mind, you know, I’m not like you with your little tricks. You never speak up, and then you get all out of sorts when things happen that you don’t like. It’s like you love turning me into the villain, when I’ve done nothing to deserve that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock apologised again, feeling very much like a foolish child, ‘I just... I wanted to make you happy. I didn’t think I would have that kind of reaction. I’ll do better, Liam, I promise,’ he hesitated, then continued in a small voice, ‘Can I tell you something now?’ Liam nodded, so Sherlock cleared his throat, and blushed furiously before saying, ‘That... That thing you put on me? It’s starting to hurt. May I... Would you mind if I took it off now?’

‘Thing?’ Liam said, his brows knitting together, ‘What are you talking about?’

Sherlock knelt up a bit on the bed, and pulled down the pyjama bottoms he was still wearing, to show Liam the cock cage that was still locked around his groin. Liam’s eyes flew open, and he actually let out a low laugh.

‘Good god, you kept that thing on all this time?’ He asked in disbelief, ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you take it off last night?’

‘You said... You said you were the only one who got to keep the key,’ Sherlock reminded him, feeling hot and embarrassed, ‘You put it in your drawer. I thought I wasn’t allow-... I thought you would want to... I don’t know, Liam. I guess I thought I should keep it on until you told me it was okay to take it off?’

Liam stared at him a moment longer, stunned, then rolled over, and retrieved the keys from his drawer. He unfastened the device with another click, and dropped it down on the bed. Sherlock groaned with relief, and massaged himself to ease the discomfort. Liam watched him, his eyes wide and dark with arousal.

‘You really do try sometimes, don’t you?’ He asked, and wrapped his hand over Sherlock’s, increasing their speed and grip, ‘Every now and then, you do try to be so good.’

Much to his surprise, Sherlock found himself growing very hard very quickly. He groaned again, and thrust into their joined hands, ‘I’m trying Liam, I swear, I am,’ he said breathlessly.

‘Maybe you should get a reward then,’ Liam said huskily, and reached back in his drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube. He poured some into his hand, and ran it over his cock, then pushed Sherlock onto his back, and pressed his knees to his chest. He lined up with Sherlock’s arse, and entered him slowly, at the same time reaching down to take Sherlock back in his hand, and bent low to kiss Sherlock’s mouth.

The sex was slow and intimate, and Sherlock’s orgasm rolled though him with a delicious slow burn. Afterwards, Liam took him back in his arms, and they fell into a mid-afternoon sleep, still tangled up in each other. 

~*~

Sherlock woke hours later, alone in the bed. He heard Liam in the sitting room on the telephone, but could not make out an words; he could only hear the annoyed note in Liam’s voice, and moments later, the phone being slammed down angrily into the cradle. He frowned, trying to decide if he should go investigate, but before he could come to a conclusion, Liam stormed back into the bedroom. He froze when he saw Sherlock awake in the bed, and the thunderous look on his face was quickly replaced with a mild look of surprise and affection, though his eyes still remained sharp and focussed, and his smile seemed forced and unnatural.

‘Hi love,’ he said, coming over to the bed quickly, and leaning down to press a kiss onto Sherlock’s forehead, ‘How was your sleep?’

‘Okay,’ Sherlock said uncertainly, sitting up, ‘What was that all about a moment ago? You sounded upset.’

‘Nothing worth worrying about,’ Liam said evasively, ‘Just an disagreement with an... Associate. It’s not important. I was just thinking of heading out to grab some dinner... How does Italian takeaway sound? I can run up to that place on the corner and be back in a flash.’

‘That’s fine with me,’ Sherlock said, still uneasy, but decided not to push the matter, since he knew that never failed to aggravate Liam further, ‘Whatever you think is good.’

‘Okay, love, I’ll be right back,’ Liam said, and grabbed his wallet from the dresser. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead again, and made it all the way to the doorway before pausing and turning around again, ‘By the way... While you were sleeping, I was thinking about what you said last night... You know, about not getting me a present for Christmas?’

‘Oh yeah?’ Sherlock asked, a pit already forming in his stomach. Somehow he felt like he knew what Liam was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

‘Yeah... I was thinking... What do you think of a... Well, a repeat of my birthday present?’ Liam asked, blushing slightly, and lowering his gaze to the ground, the perfect picture of bashfulness, ‘I mean... It was just so amazing that you were willing to do that for me, and my god, you were fucking _hot_ that night. I know it got a little wild last time, so maybe I’d only invite maybe four others this time? What do you think?’

‘Liam, I...’ Sherlock started, but didn’t know quite how to refuse without causing Liam to become even more embarrassed, ‘I don’t know. I mean... I guess I don’t mind when it’s one or two others, but last time was too much. It... I was... It took _weeks_ for my ribs to heal, remember?’

‘Well that was because of the birthday bumps, though,’ Liam argued, ‘It wouldn’t be like that this time. And I already said I know it got a little rough last time, so that’s why I only invited a few friends. Charles will be there, and you said you like him.’

Sherlock had certainly never gone so far as to say he _liked_ Charles, only that he didn’t mind when he came over, because he usually brought a fresh stash of cocaine with him, but that point didn’t even cross his mind, because he was too distracted by something far more concerning.

‘Wait, did you said _invited_?’ He asked incredulously, ‘As in... You have already made plans for this? So asking me was just for show?’

Liam was silent for a long moment, before answering, ‘Yes, love,’ he said sheepishly, shame clearly evident, ‘I did already plan it. I’m sorry. I just thought... Well, I thought it could be a bit of a surprise, and that you wouldn’t mind. You’re always so wonderful to me when it comes to... Things like this. You’re right; it was really rude of me to assume. I should have been more considerate.’

Sherlock again wanted to protest words being put in his mouth, but it didn’t seem like a fight worth having. Instead, he steeled himself for a much worst fight. He cleared his throat and said ‘No’ in a voice that was shaky, but firm.

Liam’s eyes sprang open, and for one wild moment, Sherlock saw something dangerous there, but it was gone a split second later. He swallowed hard and continued, ‘You... You said you wanted me to, you know, to speak up, when I... When I don’t want to do something. Please, Liam, I don’t... I didn’t... I just don’t want to. Not with that many people, it’s too much.’

Liam just stared at him, and Sherlock could see the wheels turning in his brain, and braced himself for more wheedling, or perhaps even anger, but instead, Liam just said quietly, ‘Piss off, Sherlock,’ and turned abruptly and stormed from the flat.

Somehow, Sherlock though Italian takeaway was no longer an option.

~*~

Liam did not return that night, and no other guest showed up, so Sherlock supposed they had made other arrangements for entertainment elsewhere.

~*~

29 DECEMBER 1996

Morning came, and still no Liam.

Sherlock went back to bed, a horrible, uneasy feeling deep in his stomach.

~*~

He awoke again mid-afternoon, and could tell from the stony-stillness of the flat that he was still alone.

The unease had now transformed itself into dread. It hurt.

He rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling, fingers steepled together under his chin.

He did not move until the sun had fallen behind the buildings outside his window, and then it was only because his veins screamed for something to soothe their jagged edges.

He snorted the rest of his ‘Christmas present’, and waited for oblivion to set in.

~*~

Realisation hit him a bit later like a slap in the face.

Liam was not coming back. He was being punished.

This had happened once before, the first time Liam had brought up bringing another person into the bedroom with them, and Sherlock had initially refused. Liam had disappeared for nearly a week, leaving Sherlock frantic with worry and insecurity.

Understanding washed over him, and he settled back down to contemplate his choices.

He knew the easiest thing to do would be to retract his original stance, and give Liam what he wanted for his Christmas gift, but he just couldn’t come to terms with it. Liam’s birthday party had nearly undone him; he’d been off kilter and hurt — emotionally and physically — for weeks after, and he truly felt like he couldn’t handle being in that place again. And Liam had told him to speak up when he didn’t want to do something. 

He was trying to do what was asked of him, but it still wasn’t right.

Realisation and understanding was replaced with a heavy, heavy depression, that left him unable to leave the bed for the rest of the day.

~*~

30 DECEMBER 1996

The phone rang loudly, jolting Sherlock the following morning. He hadn’t slept again, just stayed in bed, the same thoughts circling around his head as he waited in vain for Liam to return. He’d taken breaks from his morbid contemplation only to seek out more cocaine that was stashed in various hiding spots around the flat in the hopes that it might give him the courage to change his mind. It didn’t. In fact, it only made things more convoluted in his head as his brain was sent into overdrive, and his body craved contact that was not forthcoming.

Sherlock leapt for the phone, and snatched it up with shaking hands.

‘Liam?’ He croaked into the receiver.

Silence stretched heavily on the other end of the line before he heard a deep breath, and then, ‘No, Sherlock, sorry, it’s Victor.’

Sherlock’s heart did a funny thing in his chest, and he squeezed his eyes closed before replying, ‘Victor. Hi. Sorry, I just thought... Never mind. I... It’s good to hear your voice.’

‘Is... Is everything alright?’ Victor asked cautiously, sounding uncomfortable, ‘You sound... Not okay.’

Sherlock paused for a long moment, not really sure how respond. He thought back to the clarity he had had when he’d first returned to Oxford, but it was like a distant memory now. How selfish was he to want two totally opposite things with the same amount of vigour? He sighed, and started, ‘I’m...’ but the word _fine_ refused to come. He swallowed and tried again, ‘I’m...’ and again had to stop when he was horrified to find tears springing into his eyes, and a lump forming in his throat.

‘Sherlock?’ Victor asked gently, concern evident in his voice, ‘Sherlock, what’s going on?’

‘I just miss you, Victor,’ Sherlock said finally, his voice breaking, ‘I’m... You’re... No, I’m not okay.’

‘Want to talk about it?’ Victor offered, and Sherlock shook his head, knowing Victor couldn’t see the gesture through the phone, but unable to articulate any further. Of course, Victor — ever attuned to Sherlock’s feelings — seemed to understand, so he said quietly, ‘It’s okay if you don’t. But you can, if you want.’

‘I don’t know what I want,’ Sherlock answered truthfully, his words weighted with so much meaning, ‘I’m exhausted, and I’m high, and I’m just so... So unhappy, Victor. I don’t know what to do.’

‘I’m sorry, Sherlock,’ Victor murmured into the phone, ‘I wish there was something I could do for you,’ he sighed, and took another deep breath. It seemed to Sherlock that he was steeling himself for something, and apparently he was right, because the next thing Victor said was, ‘We do need to talk, though... Sometime in the near future, hopefully. I’m sorry to make it seem urgent or put pressure on you, but sooner rather than later would really be for the best.’

A new wave of cold dread washed over Sherlock, and he gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles shone white against the plastic receiver, ‘About the drugs?’ He asked in a small voice, hating how weak he sounded.

Victor sighed again, and this time it sounded as though he was the one choking back tears, ‘About everything, Sherlock. I’m really sorry, I-’

‘No, Victor,’ Sherlock interrupted desperately, ‘Don’t. Not over the phone. Please.’

‘When will I see you next, do you think?’ Victor asked thickly, ‘I... I can take a train into Oxford if you want, if you can’t get away? I don’t want to inconvenience you...’

‘I’ll come to you,’ Sherlock said firmly, ‘I’ll come right now if you want me to. Just... Please. Whatever you want, I’ll... Whatever you want, Victor.’

‘Okay,’ Victor replied, and his voice was nearly a whisper, ‘I just need to talk to you. Please.’

‘I’ll catch a train this afternoon,’ Sherlock offered quickly, ‘I... I’m sorry, Victor.’

‘Don’t be,’ Victor replied, and cleared his throat, ‘I’ll see you soon, then?’

‘Later today,’ Sherlock promised, ‘I’ll be there.’

‘Okay,’ Victor said again. Sherlock heard him sniff, and he said quietly, ‘Goodbye, Sherlock,’ and hung up the phone without waiting for a response.

Sherlock gently returned the receiver to the cradle, and scrubbed his hands over his face. This was very possibly the worst he’d ever felt in his entire wretched life. Now was not the time to wallow, though.

He rose from the bed like a man in a trance, and grabbed his overnight bag, blindly throwing items into it, and got himself dressed. He hadn’t eaten in days, and the sudden flurry of movement caused his head to spin, but he refused to let it slow him down. He clutched his stomach with one arm, and with a sudden stroke of inspiration, used the other to reach under the bed, and pull out the black duffle that was hidden there. He stuffed it into his overnight bag, snatched his violin case from the sitting room, quickly slipped on his shoes, and burst from the flat.

Armed with the only weapons he possessed, he flagged down a cab, and hurriedly directed the cabbie to take him to the train station. 

He would not lose twice, he decided, as he watched the city whiz by. Not when it came to this. He would convince Victor to give him another chance. One way or another.


	9. Part IX — 30 December 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic may or may not be going on a short hiatus either this week or the next — it kind of depends on how this week goes for me! There are some big things in the works IRL, so I suppose only time will tell!
> 
> Irons in the fire at this time: some musical theatre/Sherlock AU/crossovers, particularly Hamilton or Les Miserables... I don’t really know why, but would love to know if this sounds appealing AT ALL to anyone in the entire universe aside from myself, haha. Also, some Mycroft-centric fics, because I recently realised that I adore his character. Last, but not least, continuations of both ‘the Final Form of Love’ series, and a companion to ‘Grow Old Along With Me’.
> 
> As always, thank you, thank you, thank you to any- and every- one who has shown some love this past week. I’m a huge proponent of ‘kindness is everything’, and taking that extra second to comment or leave kudos means so, so, so much.
> 
> Xx mslilylashes

PART IX

30 DECEMBER 1996

Victor hung up the kitchen phone slowly, and covered his face with his hands, the ache in his chest a sharp and physical pain.

‘You’re doing the right thing, Vic,’ his mother said quietly, placing a gentle hand on his back, and rubbing soothing circles, ‘He needs to hear this, and you only want to help him. We all do.’

‘I know, Mum,’ Victor replied miserably, ‘I just hope Sherlock sees it that way.’

The next few hours spent waiting was excruciating. Victor felt as though he was on the eve of some great battle; anticipating the inevitable look of hurt and betrayal in Sherlock’s eyes was causing his heart to hammer away in his chest, and make him feel physically ill. He retired to his room, and laid down on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling until the faint ring of the doorbell sounded through the halls. 

He rose quickly, dread heavy in his stomach, and smiled sadly as a phrase he’d stolen from Sherlock flashed unbidden into his thoughts.

_Into battle._

His parents hung back from the entryway, and his father placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He turned to meet their expectant gaze, terror written all over his face.

‘It’ll be all right, Victor,’ his father said softly, ‘We’ll give you two some time. Let us know when you’re ready for us to step in.

‘Okay, Dad,’ Victor whispered, and walked to the door like a man approaching his doom. He heard his parents’ fading footsteps as the doorbell rang again, and he opened the door slowly.

Sherlock stood on the front step, sodden from the snow and slush, carrying several bags and his violin case. He looked as apprehensive as Victor felt, and bit his lip, but did not speak.

‘Come in,’ Victor offered, stepping aside to grant him entrance. Sherlock nodded, and entered, closing the door behind him. They stared at each other for a long moment. Sherlock looked like absolute hell. His face was pale and gaunt, and his eyes had a haunted, faraway look. He was trembling and swaying slightly, shoulders drooping from the weight of his bags. Victor reached for them, gently pulling them from his grasp. ‘Let’s... Let’s go to my room, okay?’ He asked.

‘Okay, Victor,’ Sherlock agreed, not meeting his eyes, and let himself be lead down the long halls to Victor’s room.

Once they were inside, with the door closed firmly behind them, Victor set down Sherlock’s bags, and turned back to face him. To his utter surprise, Sherlock sank to his knees just inside the door, and was staring straight ahead, still refusing to raise his eyes to Victor’s face.

‘Victor, I...’ he started, his voice hoarse and shaky, ‘Please. Let me make things right. I’ll... I’ll do anything; I won’t argue, I won’t fight. I won’t say no. Anything, Victor, please. Just don’t... Don’t leave. Not yet. I can’t... I couldn’t bear it. Not now.’

‘_Sherlock_,’ Victor said, heart in his throat, ‘I don’t-’

‘_No_!’ Sherlock snarled, ‘No, I... Look, I brought... I have things. I have everything. I’ll do whatever it takes; whatever you want. I have... Hang on, I’ll show you.’ He clambered clumsily to his feet, stripped his wet coat off, and grabbed his overnight bag. He pulled Victor to the settee, pushed him down, and knelt again at his feet, opening the zip to his bag. Like a madman, he began pulling items from it, shoving each one at Victor in turn, ‘I have... I brought your gift, you know, from Christmas. And I brought things for... If you want... Just look. Anything you want to use, anything you want, I’ll do it for you. Or you can just have me like we’ve been doing. I’ve brought my violin, too... I started composing something for you. I’ll play it, I’ll show you. Please, just let me show you how good I’ll... Anything, Victor, just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Just don’t leave. Please.’

‘Sherlock, I’m not-‘ Victor began again, but Sherlock just shoved the black duffle more firmly into his hand, and ripped the zipper open. Bewildered, Victor glanced down at its contents, and his stomach turned when he saw what looked like handcuffs, and whips, and all sorts of other painful looking instruments. He darted his eyes up to Sherlock’s face in horror, and understanding hit him, ‘You don’t think I want to... To use this stuff on you?’

‘I won’t tell you no, Victor,’ Sherlock insisted desperately, ‘Anything you want to try, I can endure... I won’t stop you. I’ll show you. If you want to punish me for the drugs, you can. Or for... For leaving you, and for not leaving Liam. It might help.’

‘_Stop_,’ Victor all but yelled, and pushed the bag off of him like it contained hazardous waste. It fell to the floor, and several items tumbled out that he refused to look at. Angry tears flooded his eyes, and he glared at Sherlock, who had gone very still, using one hand to steady him against the settee, ‘I don’t want to _hurt you_, Sherlock. That’s the last thing I want. I want to _help you_.’ He pulled Sherlock up onto the settee, and wiped his eyes angrily, ‘How could you think... I don’t want to _torture you_ with this shit, I just want to _fucking talk to you_.’

‘Just don’t say you’re leaving,’ Sherlock said again, a note of desperation and pleading in his voice, ‘Please, Victor.’ 

‘I’m not. I couldn’t,’ Victor promised, ‘Please, just listen. Because you’re not going to like what I have to say. Actually, _you_ might want to hit me when I’m finished, and I probably won’t stop you,’ he took a deep breath, ‘So, when I got back from Oxford, my Mum started talking to me about you, and if you were coming for Christmas, and... And about us, and... Everything. And I... I’m really sorry, Sherlock, but I told her. Everything. And she’s really concerned — so’s my Dad — and they... They want to talk to you. And offer help. Because, Sherlock, it’s really bad. God, I’m so sorry, but it’s _really bad_, and I’m scared, Sherlock. I’m afraid one of these days he’s going to kill you, and there’s nothing... Nothing I can... Do...’ Victor’s voice broke then, and he could no longer maintain any sort of composure. He covered his face with his hands, and wept. All the months of worry and pain and uncertainty were coming to a head, and he couldn’t keep himself from sobbing.

Sherlock didn’t speak, but a moment later, Victor felt him tugging on his wrists, and he uncovered his face to see Sherlock pale and an unreadable expression on his face for a split second before he was enveloped in a tight embrace.

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock whispered brokenly into Victor’s ear, ‘Thank you, thank you. Oh god, Victor.’ Victor felt new wetness against his cheek, and he realised Sherlock had begun to cry as well.

‘He left,’ Sherlock continued, still murmuring into Victor’s ear, not pulling away at all, ‘He asked me... Well, that’s not quite right. He arranged for... For four of his friends to come over, and... Well, you know. Like what happened for his birthday, and Victor, I just _couldn’t_. I never tell him no, not in months and months, and last time, it just _hurt_, and I was _scared_. He said that was what he wanted for Christmas, and I just couldn’t give it to him. I said no, and he told me to piss off, and he _left_. I don’t know where he went and when he’s coming back,’ he took a deep breath, and pulled away then, staring at Victor with red rimmed eyes, and said again, ‘I told him no. And he left.’

‘That bastard,’ Victor said, his voice shaking with hatred, ‘That fucking bastard. Sherlock, please. Let me help you. Please.’

‘He told me to speak up when I didn’t want to do something,’ Sherlock continued in a dazed voice, ‘For Christmas, he got me this... This thing, and it was terrifying. I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t tell him, and I had a panic attack, and he was _furious_, and said if I didn’t like something I should tell him. So I did, and he left anyway. Victor, I hate it. I _hate_ having to fuck his friends, I _hate_ never knowing when it’s going to happen, or who’s going to be there, and I _hate_ that now everyone _knows_ I’m this stupid slag whose boyfriend brings people home for him to fuck. It _hurts_, Victor, and the only thing that makes it okay is the cocaine, and after that wears off, when it’s just me, it’s _hateful_. I just want it all to stop. I’m so tired.’

‘Let me help,’ Victor repeated, grasping Sherlock’s hand in his, ‘And my parents. Anything you need, we’ll give it to you. You never need to go back to him, I promise. And Sherlock... You’re not _some stupid slag_, you are incredible. You are amazing. And anyone who doesn’t understand and appreciate that can go straight to hell.’

‘Thank you, Victor,’ Sherlock said again, giving Victor’s hand a squeeze, ‘Maybe... Maybe can I change, and then we can talk to your parents? Only... Do you mind if I have something to eat first? I haven’t eaten since... The day after Boxing Day, I think. Would that be okay?’

‘More than okay, Sherlock,’ Victor replied firmly, his relief nearly palpable, ‘That would be more than okay.’

~*~

As it turned out, in his mad dash to pack, Sherlock hadn’t packed himself any casual clothes, so Victor lent him a pair of sweatpants, and a cozy old hoodie. Sherlock sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter, bundled up and warm, as Victor rummaged through the refrigerator to see what they could make for a late lunch.

‘How about eggs and toast?’ He asked finally, pulling out supplies for omelettes and placing them on the counter.

‘That sounds great,’ Sherlock replied, as his stomach let out an audible grumble. He stared down at it as though he’d never seen anything quite so bizarre, and Victor couldn’t help but smile, ‘Here, I’ll help.’

They set to work, cutting vegetables, and shredding cheese, and it felt so domestic and grown up and _good_. Victor kept darting little glances at Sherlock as he bent over the cutting board, concentrating on finely chopping peppers and onions. The precision with which Sherlock handled even the most mundane of tasks was incredibly endearing.

Twenty minutes later, they were sat back at the counter before two sizzling, and surprisingly passable omelettes as the toast popped, and Victor handed Sherlock a few slices along with a jar of jam. The two of them were eating in silence for a few moments, when Victor’s Mum entered the kitchen.

‘Oh, hello, Sherlock,’ she said kindly, leaning over to give him a kiss on the top of his head as she walked by, ‘I hope you had a happy Christmas?’ Victor watched Sherlock close his eyes for a moment, and lean into the contact before responding.

‘It had its ups and downs, Mrs Trevor,’ Sherlock replied evasively between bites, ‘I wanted to thank you for the invitation to join you here, though. It sounds like it would have been a good time.’

‘You’re welcome here any time, dear,’ she told him gently, ‘We love having you, you know that,’ she turned to Victor and carefully asked, ‘Vic, would you like me to get Dad now, or are did you boys have other plans?’

‘Uhm... I think we’re ready for him, right, Sherlock?’ Victor asked, turning to Sherlock uncertainly. Sherlock nodded, suddenly subdued. Even though Victor’s father had always treated Sherlock with warm respect and kindness, Sherlock admitted that he was never quite sure if he had earned his approval. Victor suspected this had something to do with his relationship with his own father, but never pressed the issue, only continued to assure Sherlock that Mr Trevor held him in high regard.

Victor’s Mum left to go grab his Dad, and Sherlock turned to Victor, apprehension written all over his face. He began drumming his fingers nervously against the counter, and he took several deep breaths to try to steady himself.

‘Victor, I don’t know if I can do this,’ he whispered, ‘God, it’s so embarrassing. How will they possibly want to even allow us to continue to associate with one another, much less allow me to spend time in their own home once they know everything?’ He looked down at his hands, and bit his lip, ‘Victor, I don’t even know if you will want anything to do with me once you know everything.’

He was breathing very quickly now, and covered his mouth with his hands, scrubbing them over his face into his hair, and back again. Victor leaned over and hugged Sherlock tight.

‘No one is going to judge you, Sherlock,’ he promised in a low voice, ‘We just want to help. That’s all. You’re so strong to have survived everything you’ve been through. You amaze me. And it’s going to be okay.’

Victor’s parents re-entered the kitchen then, so Victor gave Sherlock’s hand one final squeeze, and sat up straight. Sherlock miserably followed suit, cleared his throat, and turned to face Victor’s parents.

‘Victor says that he... That you know about... About me, and Li-, I mean, my... Boyfriend,’ he started in a shaky voice, training his eyes on the counter in front of him, ‘And that you know about the startlingly poor choices I’ve made during our time together, and... And I’m sorry. For getting involved with your son while... While being how I am — what I am. I know he deserves much better than to be involved with someone like me. I... My plan is to rectify my current situation in the near future — I just need time, and I swear, I will be a worthy companion for Victor. I just... Need time. Please.’

‘Sherlock, you have nothing to apologise for,’ Victor’s Dad said firmly, ‘You are an incredibly resilient individual in an incredibly terrible situation, and frankly, I admire the hell out of you for coming forward and talking to us about it. So how can we help? Do you need some place safe to stay? Do you want to go to the police? Do your parents know?’

‘They don’t know anything, Mr Trevor,’ Sherlock replied quietly, ‘They adore him. I... We don’t get on, my parents and I. I don’t know if they would even believe that he... Well, anyway, no. I haven’t discussed the nature of my relationship with Liam with my parents.,’ he sighed, ‘I suppose I might be able to speak to my brother about everything. He’s living in London now. I probably won’t go to the police unless I have to... Do you think I have to?’ He glanced up at Victor’s parents, the look on his face heartbreakingly vulnerable.

‘I really think you should, Sherlock,’ Victor’s Mum interjected gently, ‘Hurting and coercing someone like this... It’s not just awful, it’s a crime. We won’t force you to if it’s something you don’t feel comfortable with right now, but please know that if you decide to go down that road, we will stay with you every step of the way. You don’t have to face this alone.’

‘Can I talk to my brother first? Before I make a decision?’ Sherlock asked, sounding unsure in a way Victor had never heard before, ‘I just... I don’t know what the right thing to do is. Liam, he... He comes from a very influential family. I don’t know how seriously anyone would take anything I have to say. Mike — sorry, Mycroft — will know if it’s worth pursuing.’

‘Of course, Sherlock,’ Victor’s Mum assured him, ‘This is your decision, every part of it. We just want you to know that you have people who care about you and will stand by your side however you need,’ she paused, and took his hand, ‘But Sherlock... Not only as someone who cares about you, but also as a nurse, I need to know... What about the drugs? You’re a man of science; you of all people have to know the risks involved with drug use.’

‘I know, Mrs Trevor,’ Sherlock said, shame colouring his cheeks. He stared at his hand in hers, for another moment before continuing quietly, ‘It just... It made it not hurt. When Liam would... When I would have to... When he brought home guests for me to... When I was high, the sex didn’t hurt, and I didn’t feel... Like this,’ he finished, gritting his teeth, his eyes very bright, ‘But, I have been significantly reducing how often I... Imbibe. I swear, I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to change. I will leave him.’

‘Where will you stay in the meantime? Would you like to stay here? Are you safe if you return home?’ Victor’s Mum asked, still holding Sherlock’s hand.

‘I... I don’t know, Mrs Trevor,’ Sherlock said, and Victor could tell he was starting to feel very overwhelmed.

‘Let’s take this one step at a time, Gen,’ Victor’s father interjected gently, ‘Sherlock, I think speaking with your brother is a great first step. Do you know when you would like to do that?’

‘Well... It’s my birthday next Monday, so I suppose he will try and contact me then,’ Sherlock replied gratefully, ‘I can see if he has time to meet with me after that.’

‘That sounds great. So why don’t you take a few days and decide if between now and then you’d like to return to Oxford, or stay here, or go straight to London — whatever you decide is best, we’ll support, and if you need help getting there, we’ll make it happen. Thank you for trusting us, Sherlock, we all only want the best for you,’ Victor’s father said, giving Sherlock a pat on the back, ‘Gen, why don’t we give the boys some space. It’s been a heavy conversation; I’m sure they could use a break.’

Victor’s Mum agreed, and gave Sherlock one last kiss on the cheek before exiting the kitchen with Victor’s Dad. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, before laying his forehead down on cool marble of the kitchen counter, and he did not move again, only brought his hands up, and wove them through the hair on the back of his head. Victor hesitated a moment before standing, and beginning to clear away his and Sherlock’s plates, and then the mess they had made while making their meal, knowing Sherlock would appreciate a few moments to compose himself. Once he had returned the kitchen to its original state, he turned back to Sherlock, who had still not raised his head up or released his hair.

‘Hey you,’ Victor said, nudging Sherlock gently, ‘Want to go back to my room?’

Sherlock sat up, and nodded, again following Victor silently back to his room. When they were finally inside, with the door closed behind them, Sherlock lowered himself onto the settee, and reached down to the ground to pick up some of the objects that had fallen from the black duffle earlier. He picked up a constricting looking hood, and stared down at it in his hands.

‘He put this on me the night before he left,’ Sherlock said suddenly, refusing to look at Victor, ‘Along with this,’ he said, and picked up what had to be a gag that looked much to large to fit comfortably in someone’s mouth. Sherlock flipped the hood around until its blank face was staring up at Victor like a deflated skull. He shivered. Sherlock continued, ‘He said it was my Christmas present. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to adjust it so I could breathe through those tiny holes near the nose, but he wouldn’t let me. When I tried a second time, he restrained my arms behind my back. Then he started fucking me from behind, and the mask slipped again, and I swear, Victor, I thought I was going to asphyxiate, and all I could think was that Liam would be fucking my dead body and not even know until it went cold. When he reached orgasm before that happened, I felt as though I’d gotten a second lease on life, and all I could think was that I needed this confounded thing _off_, and in my panicked state, I managed to get the ties tangled, and began hyperventilating. After... He was so... Upset that I didn’t enjoy it that he didn’t speak to me until the following afternoon. And even then, it was only because I’d kept this thing on, and he thought it was funny. Or arousing, I don’t really know,’ he picked up a wicked looking metal contraption, ‘Because I’d been too scared to take it off without his permission. And Victor, I think that’s the thing about it. I never tell him _no_, because I’ve been too afraid of how he would react. I’ve been afraid he would leave me. And now, I told him no, and he left.’ 

By the time he finished speaking, Sherlock looked so utterly defeated, and broken that all Victor could do was tug the items from his hands, shove them back in the duffle, and kick the whole wretched thing out of sight under the settee. He leaned over, and wrapped an arm around Sherlock, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

‘I’m so sorry, Sherlock,’ he said quietly, his lips still pressed against Sherlock’s face, ‘It’s not meant to be like that. Sex shouldn’t be about power and intimidation. It should never have been like that for you.’

Sherlock did not respond, but he leaned into Victor’s side, and laid his head on Victor’s shoulder. ‘I know it’s a bit early, but can we... Can we go to bed now, Victor? I haven’t slept in days. Is that okay?’ He asked, exhaustion written all over his features.

Victor had no protestations to that idea, and a few moments later, Victor had changed into pyjama bottoms, Sherlock had stripped off the hoodie, and they crawled into bed together. Victor gathered Sherlock into his arms, and held him until he heard Sherlock’s breathing even out, and they both fell into a much needed deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I am about to change my name from lilylashes to mslilylashes, because apparently there is a false eyelash company called ‘Lilly Lashes’ that keeps popping up. Also, I just kinda think it’s cute
> 
> PPS: I am trying to keep up on tumblr. Check it out for fan fiction post-mortems and other nonsense: mslilylashes.tumblr.com
> 
> PPPS: Headcannon for Sherlock & Genevieve Trevor here: https://mslilylashes.tumblr.com/post/189303842637/climbing-out-of-love-lilylashes-sherlock-tv


	10. Part X — 31 December 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some fluff and stuff to get us through the holidays, because after this chapter, everything starts going to hell.
> 
> At this time, I believe I will be going on a brief hiatus until the new year. I begin a new position at work next week that requires some pretty intense training, and then the holidays are upon us already. I hope to get back in the swing of things come January.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who has shown some love since the last update. It means more than words can express :)
> 
> Wishing you all a safe, happy, and healthy holiday season. I am grateful for each and every one of you.
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART X

31 DECEMBER 1996

Sherlock woke late the following morning, still warm in Victor’s embrace. A quick glance at the clock next to the bed informed him that they had slept for an astounding fourteen hours, something that rarely — if not never — happened. It had been an utterly exhausting few days for Sherlock, and apparently the same had been true for Victor. He rolled gingerly onto his back, so as not to wake Victor, and stared up at the ceiling, contemplating this.

Since he was a small child, everyone from Mummy, to Father, to Mycroft, to his tutors and teachers, and even perfect strangers had told him how very selfish and spoilt he was, and honestly, reflectively, it was hard to argue. He had no patience for pointless niceties, he did not much care about the boring little lives of those around him, and he had learned long ago that if he wasn’t the one to make having his needs met a priority, they would likely go unattended to. He had accepted and even embraced this perception of himself, and didn’t even bother to attempt to argue against it anymore.

However, he had once told Victor, that being selfish didn’t mean he was blind. He saw — more accurately than most, perhaps — the consequences of his actions, and in that moment, he understood how strikingly unfair the entire situation was to Victor, and how it had been that way for a long time. Sherlock tried mightily, but could not fathom how he would have felt if the situation was reversed — if Victor was the one who was by all rights, romantically unavailable. If Victor was the one who would show up with bruises and other marks all over his body that he blatantly refused to talk about. 

If Victor admitted he’d be forced to...

Sherlock couldn’t fathom it, because any time it crossed his mind, it made him physically ill. And for once, he found himself attempting to empathise with another human being, and what a foreign, uncomfortable, hateful thing it was. He knew that Victor and his parents privately viewed Sherlock as the victim in his situation, but honestly, Victor was equally deserving of the title. And it nearly broke Sherlock’s heart.

~*~

When Victor woke a short time later, Sherlock was still starting contemplatively at the ceiling, deeply lost in thought. It was only when he felt Victor stirring beside him that he rolled back onto his side, and snuggled in closer, enjoying the quiet warmth of the moment.

‘How are you doing?’ Victor asked with a yawn, giving Sherlock a quick squeeze, ‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly noon,’ Sherlock replied, glancing at the clock again, ‘We’ve been out for ages. I’m... Okay. And you?’

‘Better now,’ Victor murmured, his voice still heavy with sleep, ‘I can’t believe we slept that long. I guess we both needed it.’

Sherlock nodded in agreement, though he still felt as though his bones were heavy with exhaustion and anxiety. A thought entered his head suddenly, and he sat up and stretched, before turning back to Victor, ‘I have something for you,’ he said shyly, ‘Can I give you your Christmas gift now?’

Victor looked surprised at the sudden change of subject, but said ‘sure,’ with another yawn, and Sherlock scrambled out of bed, and back over to the settee, purposefully ignoring the black duffle that was still peeking out from underneath it. Instead, he picked up the sloppily wrapped box he had all but thrown at Victor the night before, and raced back to bed. Victor watched him with a fond grin, and reached down under the bed and pulled out a box of his own that was wrapped much neater than Sherlock’s. Victor offered the box to him, and Sherlock accepted, shoving his own package into Victor’s lap.

‘You first,’ he said shyly, ‘It’s silly, but... I thought you might like it. I had the shopkeeper do a custom engraving on the lid. I drew the stave, and he burned it into the wood, so I know it’s not perfect, but he didn’t have any templates to go off of. I know it’s foolish and sentimental, but...’

By this point in his babbling, Victor had pulled back the wrapping to reveal a sleek chestnut wood case. He ran his fingers over the musical stave that was embossed into the wood, and with a quick furrow of his brow, laid his fingers out before him, tapping gently. His eyes flew open when he realised what melody he was playing.

‘_Sherlock_,’ he breathed, ‘Is this... Is this the beginning of the song I wrote for you?’ When Sherlock nodded silently, Victor’s mouth fell open for a moment before transforming into a wide smile, ‘I love it! This has to be the best gift anyone has ever given me.’ He leaned over and hugged Sherlock tightly, kissing his cheek.

‘There... There’s something inside,’ Sherlock mumbled, his cheeks flushing slightly, ‘Nothing seemed good enough, so I told the shopkeeper a bit about you, and he put this collection together.’

Still in awe of the thoughtfulness of the box itself, Victor distractedly flipped the clasp open, and pried the lid up. He gaped again when he saw the rows of small, glittering jars each filled with powder in deep, rich hues. He held one up to the light and gave it a little shake.

‘The shopkeeper assured me these are quality pigments,’ Sherlock continued, uncomfortably, ‘I’m typically not good with these kinds of things, but I really wanted to give you something special.’

‘You’re amazing,’ Victor said quietly, ‘You’re amazing, and brilliant, and thoughtful, and... I love it, Sherlock. Thank you so much.’ He cleared his throat, and snorted, ‘You should have gone first. It’s definitely going to be a let down after how perfect this is.’

Sherlock stared curiously down at the package in his own lap, having momentarily forgotten it in his excitement to see Victor open his gift. He brought it up to eye level, and examined the wrapping, smiling when he realised exactly what Victor had used.

‘Victor, is this from a chemistry textbook?’ He asked, unable to contain his grin, ‘That’s great. Though...’ he frowned, his eyes scanning over one of the pages, ‘This periodic table is incorrect. It’s missing darmstadtium, roentgenium, and copernicium.’

Victor laughed out loud, ‘Well, I wasn’t searching for the most up to date texts to use for wrapping paper, Sherlock. I picked it up from a charity shop, so I’m sure it was out of date.’

Sherlock nodded, as if accepting this explanation, and ran his fingers under the sellotape, not wanting to tear the paper. Slowly, he peeled the wrappings back to reveal a rather large square cardboard box. It looked roughly the size of a child’s football, and for one wild moment he wondered if that was what Victor had given him. He gingerly lifted the lid, and pulled back several wads of newspaper to find something much better than that. Much better than anything he could have imagined, actually.

Nestled unassumingly in a sea of crumbled papers, was what looked like a human skull. Sherlock pulled it slowly from the box, and realised with a start that it was a real skull, not a plastic replica. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the frontal bone, then traced the line of coronal suture. He turned it to and fro in his hands, noting that almost all teeth were still perfectly intact.

‘How...?’ He asked quietly, still turning the thing over in his hands, and trying very hard to make sense of the wave of emotion that was rising up in his chest.

‘Well... It wasn’t easy, but in the end, Lucy and I were able to appeal to the head of the science department at school, and see if she was willing to put us in touch with some of the local hospitals who do anatomical donations. Once we told her it was for you, she was much more willing to help; you’re quite well-liked by the staff there, you know. As it turns out, there was a skeleton in the biology wing that was about to be replaced, and normally they would cremate the remains, but we were granted special permission to make a donation to the department — that’s in your name too, by the way — and they ‘gifted’ us with the skull as a thank you,’ Victor said all this in a rush. It was now his turn to blush furiously.

Sherlock didn’t speak, just stared down at the skull in his hands for a long moment before returning it to the box where it fit back perfectly between the papers. He closed the lid gently, and set the whole thing to the side. When he finally looked back up, he turned to Victor, a hundred different things he wished to say on the tip of his tongue, but all he could manage was a quiet ‘thank you,’ but this seemed to be sufficient, because Victor broke into a happy grin again.

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ he said honestly, ‘I just got the idea one day when you were telling me about how you snuck into the mortuary to study the corpses, and, well... I can’t believe we pulled it off, in all honesty. It’s nowhere near as grand as what you picked out, but...’

‘It’s perfect,’ Sherlock interrupted, and grabbed both boxes, set them carefully down on the ground, then reached over, and pulled Victor back down on the mattress. 

They didn’t leave the bed until late afternoon.

~*~

The boys finally exited Victor’s room later in the evening, at Mrs Trevor’s request they join the family for New Year’s Eve dinner. Still feeling uncomfortably embarrassed over last night’s conversation, Sherlock silently allowed Victor to lead him to the dining room. As always the table was beautifully set for the four Trevors and Sherlock. It was times like this he was almost grateful for the years of etiquette lessons Mummy had forced him to endure, though he knew Mr and Mrs Trevor were nowhere near as priggish as the Holmes’ society friends.

Dinner was, of course, delicious, and the atmosphere was so relaxed and cheerful that Sherlock found himself for the first time ever quite enjoying being a part of the family tradition. Once they were done eating, the whole group retired to the sitting room, and Jonathan rummaged in the cupboard until he unearthed a well-worn stack of boxes of board games that were held together by sellotape and sheer force of will.

‘What do you think, Vic? Like old times?’ He asked with a snort, ‘Or maybe you don’t want to let Sherlock see what a poor loser you are when you lose at checkers?’

Victor’s eyes narrowed, ‘Or how about how you mysteriously forget how to count when you’re the banker in Monopoly? Somehow you always end up with a small stash of £500 notes under your corner of the board.’

‘Boys,’ Mrs Trevor interjected firmly, but her eyes were twinkling, ‘Play nice, or you’ll be sent to your rooms.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ the brothers intoned automatically, making both Mrs Trevor, and Sherlock smile fondly. Sherlock scanned through faded names on the sides of the boxes, and found himself reaching for one without quite realising what he was doing. 

‘What about Cluedo?’ He asked quietly, ‘My brother and I... It used to be our favourite.’

Jonathan’s eyes lit up, and he snatched it from the pile, ‘Yes, that’s perfect,’ he said as he pulled the lid from the box, and began setting to board up, and arguing with. Victor over how to pick who went first.

Sherlock caught Mrs Trevor’s eye, and grinned.

The game... Was on.

~*~

At quarter to midnight, and several round of Cluedo later, Sherlock leaned back against the sofa with a contented sigh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such wonderful, wholesome fun.

Despite their protests agains the other, both Victor and Jonathan had cheated horribly at the game, but Sherlock didn’t have the heart to call either of them out, because the fierceness with which they competed was truly adorable. Regardless, Sherlock had easily won two out of the three rounds they had played with relative ease, thus prompting Mr Trevor to chuckle over his glass of scotch and remark that if Sherlock’s career as a chemist ever failed, perhaps he should consider being a detective. He snorted at the comment, but privately glowed with pride.

Jonathan glanced at the clock, and stretched, yawning widely.

‘Almost midnight, then,’ he said sleepily, ‘Can’t believe I’m this tired already.’

‘Well, cheating your way through three games of Cluedo will do that to you,’ Victor remarked darkly, still not over the fact that he had been the only one to not win a game. Jonathan glared at him, and started shoving the pieces and cards back in the box.

‘You should talk, Vic,’ he grumbled, ‘Like you’re not the one who mysteriously ended up with all the-’

‘_Boys_,’ Mrs Trevor said for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening, ‘Do you need to go to bed? Perhaps we should have sent you to bed straight after dinner? Anyway, it’’s almost time. Are you going to play your song for the new year?’

Jonathan looked as though he would like to continue to argue, but then sighed and nodded. He retreated to one corner of the room where his violin was propped, and Victor took his seat at the grand piano near the window. Sherlock watched them curiously.

‘Will you play with us, Sherlock?’ Jonathan asked with another yawn, ‘We always bring in the new year with Auld Lang Syne... It’s become a bit of a tradition, and it’s been ages since we played together.’

Sherlock wanted to point out that three months was hardly ‘ages’, but instead he merely nodded, and excused himself to retrieve his violin from Victor’s bedroom. He had never played with Victor, and was oddly giddy at the idea.

After a few moments spent tuning their respective instruments and picking a key, the clock ticked ever closer to midnight, and Sherlock raised his violin to his chin. At thirty seconds to midnight, Victor met his gaze, and nodded, and they began their song.

_Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?_  
_Should old acquaintance be forgot, and days of auld lang syne?_  
  
_For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne_  
_We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne..._

Moments later, the clock stuck midnight, and in the distance, Sherlock could hear the roar of neighbours celebrating. He lowered his violin, and glanced shyly around the room, taking in the breathtaking sight before him. Jonathan sighed happily as he lowered his own instrument. Mr and Mrs Trevor shared a chaste kiss as fireworks lit the sky on the telly behind them.

Victor appeared by his side, and he raised his hands to cup Sherlock’s face.

‘Happy New Year, Sherlock,’ he said huskily, ‘I truly hope this year becomes everything you want it to be.’

Sherlock nodded silently, and moments later, Victor’s lips were on his.

He couldn’t remember ever welcoming a new year feeling as loved and hopeful as he did in that very moment. He thought idly that perhaps 1997 would be the year his life changed.

He had no idea how very right he would turn out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I might be looking for a beta to help with continuity between Say Something/Climbing Out of Love, and Dubious... Is there anyone who might be interested in helping out? Hit me up :)


	11. Part XI -- 02 January 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Valentine's Day... and then some!
> 
> I am back, but perhaps only briefly... I don't want to over-promise. Real life has been... Something else, that's for sure. A healthy mix of happiness, anxiety, and heartache. I will try to update my tumblr with more insight on all this mess in the near future.
> 
> That being said, I so, so, so appreciate everyone who has left kudos, comments, messages, etc. in my absence. Truly, truly, I appreciate it so much. I'm amidst a particularly hard month right now, so every time I get a notification from AO3 or Gmail, it's a bit of a bright spot in the darkness.
> 
> I love you all, and I hope to be back soon.
> 
> xx lilylashes

PART XI

02 JANUARY 1997

Though Sherlock had made the journey countless times before, somehow this particular train ride back from Kent to Oxford seemed to last ages. Perhaps it was dread at what was waiting for him when he arrived home; perhaps it was longing for what he was leaving behind. He allowed his mind to drift back to the day before as the countryside flew by outside the window.

New Years Day had been blissful, and entirely reminiscent of the sweet, sleepy summer Sherlock and Victor had shared. They’d finally collapsed in Victor’s bed sometime after one, and Sherlock woke abruptly nearly nine hours later. He felt as though he hadn’t slept as much in his entire life as he did the last few days with Victor.

High on the optimism and emotions from the day before, Sherlock simply watched Victor sleep for several long moments that seemed to stretch into an eternity, his arm still extended from where Sherlock had just extracted himself moments before. He watched the slow rise and fall of Victor’s chest, the way his eyelashes fluttered when his eyes darted beneath his closed eyelids. He studied the slight downward quirk of Victor’s mouth, and crinkle of his brow when something in his dream caused him distress. These quiet observations glowed inside Sherlock’s stomach like burning embers, and made him feel like he ought to shake himself to regain control. How was it possible that someone who had been a literal stranger eight months ago had somehow caused gravity to shift ever so slightly until suddenly he was the force that seemed to keep Sherlock tethered firmly to earth? Sherlock rolled his eyes at his own fanciful musings, but couldn’t prevent the tiniest of grins from forming, which quickly bubbled into quiet, giddy, self-deprecating laughter.

It was then that Victor let out a soft sigh, and pried his eyes open.

‘Morning, you,’ he murmured sleepily, ‘What’s so funny?’ He yawned, and rolled a bit onto his side so he could prop one hand behind his head and gaze up at Sherlock.

Sherlock blushed, ‘Something stupid,’ he mumbled, embarrassed at his own sentiment, ‘Sleep well?’

‘Always, next to you,’ Victor said, his eyes drifting closed again, ‘Probably my favourite thing in the whole world.’

‘I can think of a few things that might top that list,’ Sherlock replied cheekily, giving Victor a quick peck on the cheek, and jostling him a bit to get him to wake up, ‘It’s more fun if you’re awake for it, though.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Victor asked gruffly, forcing his eyes open, and smirking back at Sherlock, ‘What kind of things?’

‘_Things_,’ Sherlock repeated, and with that, he rolled over until he laid flush against Victor’s body, one leg wrapped around him, ‘_This_, for example, is my third favourite things to do with you,’ he said as he leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to Victor’s mouth that quickly escalated to some enthusiastic snogging, ‘This is my second favourite thing,’ he continued, as he snaked a hand below the covers, and into the waistband of Victor’s pyjamas, and wrapped a hand around him. Victor leaned his head back against his pillow, and closed his eyes, a quiet groan escaping lips.

‘And your first favourite?’ He asked breathlessly. Sherlock laughed, and kissed him again, still stroking Victor inside his pants. He let go suddenly, and climbed over top of Victor until he was straddling his hips fully. Victor watched him with rapt attention. Sherlock threw the covers back, and slipped a hand inside his own pyjamas, and stroked himself a few times. With a hand still on his cock, he leaned down until his mouth was right next to Victor’s ear.

‘My _favourite_ thing to do with you,’ he said, his voice husky, ‘Is... _Play Cluedo._’ He sat up and grinned as Victor’s eyes flew open, and he laughed, turning his face into the pillow.

‘You prat,’ he chuckled, his voice half muffled from the pillow, ‘You really had me going for a moment there. God,’ he said, turning back to face Sherlock, ‘You make me so happy, you know that? Truly, Sherlock, I’ve never felt like this before.’

The conversation was quickly veering off into an uncomfortable territory that Sherlock was not yet ready to explore, so he simply kissed Victor again, and sat back up, still straddling Victor’s hips.

‘Should we... I mean... Cluedo is not actually my first favourite thing to do with you,’ he said, and thrust gently against Victor, whose erection had not yet subsided, ‘It’s been too long since we’ve done that, if you ask me. Want to...?’

‘You’ll never have to work to convince me,’ Victor agreed quickly, rolling his hips slightly, to meet Sherlock’s movements, ‘If you’re sure?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned far over to the bedside table, quickly extracting lube and a condom from the top drawer. He wriggled out of his pyjama bottoms gracelessly, and and made a vague gesture downwards. ‘Do I _look_ like I’m bloody sure?’ he asked haughtily, smirking when Victor let out another laugh.

‘You _look_ bloody gorgeous, you fucking menace,’ he replied, doing his best to remove his own pyjama bottoms without dislodging Sherlock form his lap. Sherlock winked at him, and scooted downward, slipping under the covers, and taking Victor in his mouth, enjoying the gasp and roll of Victor’s hips that showed his appreciation. After a few moments, once he was satisfied with the result, he ripped open the condom, and rolled it over Victor’s cock. He shrugged the covers off, and poured some lube into his hand, and worked it over Victor’s erection.

‘Can we… Can we try something a bit different this time, do you mind? There’s just something I kind of wanted to try?’ Sherlock asked shyly, pausing briefly.

‘Anything you want, Sherlock,’ Victor breathed, his eyes dark with desire, ‘Anything.’ Sherlock nodded, feeling the slightest bit bashful. Despite being experienced with so many different sexual acts, he was still unaccustomed to being the one to initiate anything. Even with Liam, he very rarely took the lead, even back when it had been just the two of them. Liam had always just made his desires known, and Sherlock had always just shown his willingness to please. To have complete control of the events unfolding was something Sherlock was none too comfortable with, and he wanted desperately to get back to familiar territory.

Feeling heat rising from his chest, and creeping up to colour his cheeks, Sherlock positioned himself over Victor, bit his lip, and slowly sank down on his cock, gasping at the sensation of the new angle and feeling of fullness. He took his time, savouring every inch, unused to the feeling of closeness the new position offered. It took several long moments until he was sat fully in Victor’s lap, the entirety of his considerable length deep inside Sherlock’s body.

‘_Oh_,’ Sherlock said quietly, ‘_Victor_.’ He didn’t currently have the brainpower to form more words than that, but it was okay, because all Victor seemed to be able to manage was an exhale that was vaguely in the shape of his name.

Once he had fully adjusted to the new and wonderful intrusion, Sherlock gave an experimental rock backwards, and somehow it seemed as though Victor sank even deeper into him. Both boys groaned at the delicious friction, and before long found their rhythm — Victor thrusting upwards into Sherlock as he leaned back, gripping Victor’s thighs, lost in the intimacy of the coupling. 

It had never been like this, not with Liam, nor with any of the many visitors who had come to his flat, not even with Victor any of the other times they had fucked, which somehow seemed far too crass a description for the act they were in the midst of. It was exactly that — this was not _fucking_, not merely _having sex,_ or _getting laid_. This was an entirely new experience, perhaps because it came in the wake of Sherlock’s resolution of devotion, and decision to change his life, or perhaps because of the feeling of optimism that carried him into the new year, but more than likely, because it was with _Victor_, whose gaze never left Sherlock’s, whose hands rested on his hips in the perfect place between gentle and insistent, who was watching Sherlock as though he were something incredible and precious.

When Sherlock came with a muffled cry a few moments later, he felt his release hot, and wet, and slippery between his and Victor’s bodies, and for once it didn’t feel like surrender — shameful or dirty. He felt instead as though his orgasm was a gift — one given to him by someone who cared. He felt cherished.

Victor followed suit almost immediately afterwards, and Sherlock did not move immediately after the tremors subsided. He closed his eyes, wanting to commit the moment to memory. When he opened them again, he saw Victor staring at him intently, as though he were also trying to memorise the scene before him.

‘Victor, I…’ Sherlock started, his voice coming out choked and hoarse, but he forced himself to stop before he said something he would regret. He closed his mouth helplessly, and instead rolled off of Victor, and began searching for a tissue or a flannel or a hole to crawl into and disappear, pointedly refusing to acknowledge Victor’s presence until he had a better grip on himself and his emotions. He turned his back to Victor, and stared intently at the wall.

‘I know,’ Victor’s voice interjected quietly a few seconds later, much closer to Sherlock’s ear than he had expected. A few Kleenex were passed into his hand, and a soft kiss was pressed into his shoulder. ‘Me too.’

Sherlock accepted the tissues, and busied himself with cleaning up the evidence of what had just taken place — both physically and emotionally.

~*~

The train pulled into the station in the early evening, and Sherlock found his dread amplified tenfold by the time he exited onto the platform. He forced himself to remain as calm as possible on the cab ride back to his flat, his anxiety nearly palpable as he shoved some notes into the cabbie’s hand once they finally got to their destination.

All this proved to be for naught, because despite his careful movements, when he turned the key in the door, Sherlock opened it to find the flay empty and still. He exhaled sharply, letting out the breath he hadn’t quite realised he was holding. After kicking off his shoes, the first thing he did was make a beeline for the bedroom, and shove the black duffle bag back under the bed. The last thing he needed was for Liam to notice its absence and ask questions.

Feeling the same anxiety he had felt returning to the flat the day after Boxing Day, he found himself pacing around aimlessly, throwing himself first on the sofa, then springing up, and restating himself on one of the armchairs. This lasted mere minutes before he jumped up again, and snatched his violin from where he had abandoned it in the entryway. He yanked it from its case with more force than was necessary or recommended for an instrument of that caliber, and after a perfunctory tuning, and rosining of the bow, he tried to calm himself by playing a quick scale, then diving back into the piece he had been composing in his mind for Victor.

Of course, it was at that very moment that he heard a key turn in the door, and Liam stepped inside. Sherlock quickly dropped the violin to his side, guilt colouring his cheeks as though he had been caught doing something perverse, but thankfully Liam took no notice. 

This was, however, because Liam looked like absolute _shit_.

Always one to make maintaining appearances one of the highest priorities, Liam was meticulous about his image — both physical, and reputation. He spent more money on clothing and grooming than most men invested in their vehicles. One of the first things Sherlock had noticed about Liam was the state of his high-end trainers — top of the line, a brand new model, and fastidiously clean — because he had stared at the ground after performing his ‘little trick’ on Liam when Sebastian Wilkes had first brought him around. It was only when Liam had gently persuaded Sherlock to look up at him, and had showered him with praise rather than verbal abuse, that Sherlock had let his gaze take in the whole picture before, and noticed his trendy wardrobe, expensive haircut, and professional shave, which seemed out of place on a university student. Over time, he had grown to appreciate, and even become indulgently fond of the care Liam took with his appearance.

It was knowing all this that made the state of Liam as he staggered in the door all the more concerning. His hair stuck out at a million odd angles — nothing like the careful, coiffed style he usually sported — and his clothes, though still tasteful and absurdly expensive, were horribly wrinkled and looked as though he had slept in them. His face showed several days worth of stubble, and his eyes were wild and bloodshot. He smelled faintly of stale alcohol, and appeared to not have showered in days. An umbrella was clutched in his hands, though the skies had been clear when Sherlock had returned just over an hour ago.

‘Oh. Sherlock,’ Liam said dazedly, as if he’d only just noticed he wasn’t alone, ‘You’re here. Didn’t realise you’d come back. How was the lab?’

‘Liam?’ Sherlock asked uncertainly, setting his violin down on the coffee table, ‘Are you… What’s going on?’

‘I didn’t think you’d be back from class so soon,’ Liam replied, not making much sense, as term was not to start for several more weeks, ‘I… I was out.’

‘I see that,’ Sherlock said carefully, reaching towards him, and guiding Liam down to the sofa. He sat nervously next to him, and gently pulled the umbrella from his hands, ‘Liam, is something wrong? Are you all right?’

Liam followed the path of the umbrella with his entire body, and leaned heavily into Sherlock, burying his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, ‘No, love,’ he said finally, his voice breaking, ‘I’m not all right. Nothing is all right. Everything is a great, sodding disaster.’ He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist like a child clinging to a teddy.

Sherlock stiffened in the embrace (if it could even be classified as such), and sat up a bit straighter before cautiously laying a hand on Liam’s back. ‘What happened?’

‘I was sacked,’ came the muffled reply from Liam, whose face was still pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder, ‘Two days ago. They came to tell me New Years Eve — can you believe that? Some rubbish about maintaining the company reputation. Guess one of Charles’ friends had come ‘round the office looking for me after… Well, after that disagreement we’d had after Christmas. Guess it’s not really your fault, though. I should have known better than to promise you before I’d talked to you. Never thought that bloke would come to the office screaming about it. God, I’m such a fucking mess.’

‘I don’t… I don’t really understand, Liam,’ Sherlock said quietly, trying to make sense of the muffled rambling coming from Liam. It sounded as though Liam had said some part of this mess was his, Sherlock’s, fault, and he couldn’t understand how.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Liam sighed, and groaned, pushing himself roughly into an upright position, using Sherlock as a brace, ‘Charles says I should be glad to be done with them if they were going to be so uptight, but he doesn’t get it. I busted my arse for them, ‘round the clock, and I was _good_ at what I did. Don’t see how a bit of coke should have mattered compared to everything I put into that company.’ He turned to Sherlock, and forced a sour kiss on him. ‘At least I still have you. You’re all that matters to me, love, as long as we’re together, we can get through anything, right?’

‘I… Yes?’ Sherlock replied uncomfortably, ‘But Liam, what about-’

‘I’m not mad, I told you,’ Liam interrupted quickly, and Sherlock caught the faintest hint of desperation behind his words, ‘I should have never… You were right, love, completely right. I should have never, you know, assumed anything. Of course you were right. You’re so good — _too_ good — to me, and I should have never left that night. And then I came back, and thought you… Well, you’ve been so busy at the lab with your little experiments, and all that, I feel as though I haven’t seen you in ages. I just… I want us to be okay. Here. Together. And now I’ll be home more, maybe I can help, you know, be your assistant. It’ll be like old times.’

‘ ‘Busy at the lab’? Liam, I was gone for four days,’ Sherlock informed him, still slightly confused, but becoming more indignant by the second, ‘You told me to piss off and left. I had no way of knowing where you went, if you were okay, how to get ahold of you… So I left too. I haven’t been at school — term doesn’t even start for another two and a half weeks.’

‘I know I did, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, love,’ Liam replied, grabbing Sherlock’s hand in his, but still completely ignoring the fact that Sherlock had admitted to having been off to some unknown location for over half a week, ‘I’m such an arsehole. But I want to change, love, and I want to be the man you deserve. I swear. Just… Say you’ll stay. Say we can work things out, and that you’ll try. We’ll both stay here, and we’ll try, okay? Together.’

‘I… I guess we can try to talk about things,’ Sherlock agreed uncertainly, ‘But you should shower first. And… And probably brush your teeth, and maybe drink some water or something.’

Liam laughed, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, despite Sherlock’s pointedly tense posture, ‘I will. I’ll go clean up, and then let’s crawl into bed, and we’ll… Talk. And then, I want to spoil the hell out of you, okay? I missed you, love,’ he said before rising from the sofa, and staggering unsteadily towards their bathroom.

Sherlock watched him go, feeling the most curious mix of emotions. He was still confused as to what had actually transpired to set off this chain of events. He was worried about Liam’s physical and metal state, as it seemed as though he were coming down from one hell of a bender. He was cautiously optimistic to see what this new, affectionate, attentive, Liam might have to offer… He reminded Sherlock so much of the Liam he’d fallen in love with, that it made his chest ache hollowly.

And somewhere, deep, deep down, he was baffled, and maybe the slightest bit hurt that, despite all this new interest in their relationship, Liam seemed completely unaffected by the fact that Sherlock had been missing for over four days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr (mslilylashes.tumblr.com) for insight, post-mortems, and other things I find shiny and entertaining :)


	12. Part XII -- 03-05 January 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I've decided that this story will end after two more parts, still on 05 Jan 1997, immediately before my one shot from this 'verse, Rolling Thunder. The story line will continue on in one final instalment that will bridge the end of the VicLock story arc to the beginning of the JohnLock arc found in Dubious. I think I will rearrange the series according to this timeline once things are more set in stone. 
> 
> I am also working on a one-shot Sherlock/Mycroft centric piece to delve into Mycroft's relationship with his little brother, and how the entire Sherlock/Liam relationship could have been happening without him knowing. Lately I have been becoming increasingly fond of Mycroft's character, so I'm looking forward to getting into their relationship, and how snarky and awkward they are with each other to hide how much they each really care. 
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone/anyone who has shown some love recently. I'm having a bit of a rough time lately (medical issues, and my dog died unexpectedly last week), so those comments and kudos have truly been helping me get through. Love you all.
> 
> Xx lilylashes

PART XII

03 JANUARY 1997

Waiting for word from Sherlock after he left Kent was like waiting for to see what might happen after the pin was pulled from a live grenade; Victor thought if it wasn’t the explosion that killed him, the suspense just might.

He found himself up and pacing at night, and stood stock still, staring out the window during the day. His Mum would wordlessly enter the room, and wrap him in a tight embrace, or force cups of tea and plates of toast into his hands, and refuse to leave until both were gone, but other than that, both she and Victor’s father let him be. His anxiety was shared by all the Trevors; they all knew what was potentially waiting for Sherlock back in Oxford, and the utter dread that came with the uncertainty of it all.

Still, he knew it had been a hard enough choice for Sherlock to make when he decided to return to Oxford ahead of his birthday, and without speaking to his brother first, so Victor did his best to support him, despite his own misgivings. He had never wanted to make Sherlock choose between him and Liam; he’d only wanted to ensure Sherlock was safe. (And loved. And cared for. Cherished. Adored, even, though the over-the-top sentiment of the word made something in Victor’s stomach feel hot and prickly, so he knew he would never dare say it aloud to Sherlock.)

‘I just… Victor, it’s just something I have to do,’ Sherlock had said quietly, as they’d laid in bed together the night before he left. His hand was intertwined with Victor’s, and he brought it up to his cheek, as if pulling comfort from it, ‘If he’s there, then I can have the conversation to end things. If he’s still gone, I’ll have time to figure out where to go from there. Maybe call my brother, and see what he thinks about… You know, all that… Police stuff. I just… The longer I stay here, the harder it’s going to be going back, and… You know, if he _is_ back, the more complicated things become. He’s sure to have noticed my absence, and I don’t want any of this coming back on you if he, you know, doesn’t take it well.’

‘I’m not worried about his reaction towards me, Sherlock, I’m worried about what he’s going to do to _you_,’ Victor whispered honestly, grateful for the blue-grey darkness of his bedroom, ‘I worry about you all the time.’

‘I know,’ Sherlock replied, his voice soft, but rough around the edges, ‘I think you’re probably the only one who ever has.’ He sighed, and released Victor’s hand, then turned and propped himself up on one elbow, turning to face Victor, ‘It will be okay; I’m nearly certain. He’s not… He’s not violent, Victor, not, you know, outside of… Well, he’s never hit me or anything when he’s been angry. I think I should be just fine.’

He sounded as though he were trying to convince himself just as much as Victor, and the vulnerability in his voice was enough that Victor chose not to push the subject any further, and instead pulled Sherlock to him, and together they drifted off to sleep.

Victor had asked several more times the following morning if Sherlock was sure he wanted to go (he was), and if he wanted Victor or his parents to accompany him (he didn’t), and that he would be sure to call as soon as he was able (he would), and with that, Sherlock slipped into the waiting cab, and left Victor, heartsick, watching him leave.

~

04 JANUARY 1997

Another day passed, and there was still no word from Sherlock. Victor’s insomnia grew so frenzied that he’d taken to reorganising the drawers in his bureau and wardrobe in the wee hours of the morn, creating piles of shirts and socks and memorabilia, then separating those piles into even smaller piles. _Making molehills out of mountains_, he thought idly, as he watched the seconds bleed into minutes on the clock on his wall.

The morning melted away into afternoon, and then to early evening. Victor watched the slow progression of the sunset out his bedroom window, thinking that perhaps he would like to try to mix paint from his new pigments and capture the pink-yellow red-orange glow of the sun over the trees. So lost in contemplation was he, that when the phone jangled shrilly from its place on his bedside table, he stared at it for a moment as though unable to place its purpose. Then, he dove for it.

‘Hello?’ he answered, his throat dry with anticipation.

‘Good evening, Mycroft,’ came the snappish retort from the other line, ‘I got your ever-so-subtle reminder for the _festivities,_’ the word came out positively dripping with disdain, and then continued, ‘tomorrow, and I regret to inform you I shall be in attendance. Please let Mummy and Father know, and try not to let your ego inflate _too_ much when you play the triumphant hero, wrangling in your ungrateful little brother.’

Victor stared at the handset at first in confusion, then realisation dawned on him, ‘Oh! Sherlock?’ A vague hum of acquiescence, ‘Is… Is he with you? Is that why-’ 

‘Yes, obviously,’ Sherlock all but barked, ‘And no, Liam will not be joining us; he has other obligations in the city, and the good sense to not want to risk getting between yourself and a bit of birthday cake. You’ll have to suffer through the pain of my singular company, unless, of course, that proves to be too unpleasant, in which case we should call off this entire unnecessary charade,’ he paused, ask if listening to some sort of reply or retort, then continued in the same harsh tone, ‘Tomorrow morning. _Yes_, by train, what the hell kind of question is that? I expect I should arrive by early afternoon. No, I’ll take a cab. No, Mycroft, a _cab_. I swear on all that’s holy, if I see you or your driver when I leave the station, I will turn right back around and take the train straight back to Oxford. Tomorrow. Afternoon. I’ll see you at the house. Good_bye_!’ and with that, the loud clatter of a phone being slammed down, then the dial tone sounded from the earpiece.

Victor lowered the phone from his ear, and stared at it for a second longer before replacing it gently in its cradle. He was torn between amused awe at Sherlock’s brilliant facade of arguing with his brother to get the information across, and utter confusion and apprehension as to why it was even necessary. Obviously the call had been made in front of Sherlock’s boyfriend — why? Had they not broken up, then? Was he trying to keep Sherlock in their flat; is that why Sherlock had to fabricate an entire family birthday party to find a reason to get away? 

Though logically Victor knew there were no answers to be found until Sherlock arrived the following afternoon, this did nothing to stop him from staying up all night worrying anyway, as he anxiously sorted through his piles of piles, and just hoped for the best.

~*~

05 JANUARY 1997

Somehow, Victor survived the night, and the following morning. He’d alerted his parents to Sherlock’s impending visit, and positioned himself in the front sitting room so he could see the cab the moment it turned into the drive.

At almost noon exactly, a black cab appeared in the distance. Victor watched, his anticipation visceral, as Sherlock stepped out of the car, and gathered his belongings from the boot. Victor flung the front door open, and raised his hand in greeting as Sherlock made his way up the walk.

‘Hey you,’ he called once Sherlock was within earshot. Sherlock responded with a tight smile, and jogged up the last few steps to close the distance between them. Victor immediately enveloped him in a hug, and gently pulled Sherlock’s overnight bag from his hands. ‘Is… Is it stupid to say I missed you?’

‘I missed you too,’ Sherlock replied, pointedly not answering whether or not he found it stupid, ‘Let’s go in, yeah?’

Surprised by the coolness of his tone, Victor swallowed and stepped aside, his anxiety returning. Sherlock followed him in, and without pause, starting making his way down the hall to Victor’s bedroom, Victor trailing behind him uncertainly.

Once they arrived at their destination, Sherlock quietly shut the door behind them, and rested his forehead against the closed door for a moment before turning to face Victor, who had dropped Sherlock’s bag to the ground, and didn’t quite know what else he should be doing at that moment. He regarded Sherlock carefully, the way a trainer might eye a particularly spooked horse. Sherlock bit his lip, and visibly braced himself before speaking.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ he admitted softly, and Victor saw his jaw clench, and the muscles in his throat tense as he closed his eyes briefly, as if expecting some sort of physical recourse from Victor. When none was forthcoming, he continued, his voice still shaky and low, ‘Liam… There’s a lot going on right now, Victor, and he… He needs me. He’s… He’s changing. He said he’s going to start therapy, and even if I’m not going to stay with him, I’m still… He just lost his job, and can’t afford a flat by himself. I can’t just toss him out, despite everything. He did, you know, help me, back when I was first starting university. I was… So alone. Without him, I don’t think I would have made it through my first year,’ Sherlock raised his eyes to meet Victor’s, and Victor saw they were full of guilt that manifested in tears that threatened to spill over. ‘I’m so sorry, Victor,’ Sherlock whispered, and Victor reached for him, and that was all it took; Sherlock collapsed into Victor’s embrace, tears soaking into Victor’s shirt as Sherlock’s shoulders heaved with the force of his sobs.

‘Shhhh, it’s okay, it’s okay, we’re okay,’ Victor murmured over and over, rubbing light circles over Sherlock’s back, and kissing his hair, ‘I understand, I get it, I promise.’

‘I tried, Victor, I swear,’ Sherlock pleaded, his voice coming muffled from Victor’s chest, ‘But when I came home, he was an absolute wreck. It took ages just to get him to shower and calm down. I finally started to tell him that we needed to end things, but that made him break down completely, and start saying that maybe life wasn’t worth living if everything he knew was slipping away from him. He begged me not to say that, and promised to change, and I… I couldn’t just leave him like that. I was afraid he’d hurt himself. He’s not… He’s not a monster, Victor, truly he’s not. At the beginning… He was amazing. He has the potential to be amazing. And I want him to be amazing, not necessarily for me, but because he _can_ be. I just want him to be okay. And I want us — you and me — to be okay. Please. Can you please just give me a bit more time, just to get him sorted, and once he’s on his feet again, I’ll leave, I promise.’

‘How long, though, Sherlock?’ Victor asked quietly, ‘How much longer can this go on? And what if he doesn’t change? What if things don’t get better? You can’t just stay in a dangerous situation for his benefit; what if he does go off the deep end, and tries to hurt himself? Or you?’

‘He won’t hurt me again,’ Sherlock said firmly, ‘I won’t let him. I’m not going to have sex with him, or engage with him beyond being a supportive friend, because that is what he needs right now. And… And I just need _you_ to be _my_ supportive friend right now, because you’re so important to me. I don’t want to lose you, I just… I can’t lose him either, not to suicide.’

‘I’ll always support you, Sherlock,’ Victor promised, his heart positively aching, ‘I just… I don’t know how long I can keep doing this for. The last few days, not knowing if you were safe or not… It’s killing me.’

‘I know,’ Sherlock said, and it seemed as though he had completely run out of steam. He looked absolutely exhausted. Victor decided to take pity on him, and let the subject rest, at least for now.

‘Do you need a quick kip before dinner?’ he asked, concerned, ‘My Mum, uh… Well… Birthdays are kind of a big deal to her. I can always tell her you’re not up for it, if it will make you uncomfortable. She just wants to make you feel special.’

Sherlock looked immensely relieved that Victor was willing to drop the subject, and also at the offer for a nap, ‘No, please, I appreciate that she… That you all care. But yes, a few hours rest would be wonderful. Honestly, you look as though you need it as well,’ he offered Victor a small smile, though his eyes were still uncertain, ‘And anyway… It’s my third favourite thing to do with you, remember?’

Victor let out a quiet laugh, and led him to bed.


	13. Part XIII -- 05 January 1997

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, so... It ends. The story arc will continue in a new fic, tentatively called 'Saints Into the Sea' as a homage to the great 'Mr Brightside,' that should be up in the near future, and take us from the direct aftermath of this fic to the beginning of the Johnlock arc in Dubious. If you've read Dubious, you (unfortunately) know how the Viclock arc ends, and I kind of hate that it is so. But it all works out in the end, I suppose... Happiness is eventually found, for both Sherlock and Victor.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has shown support for Sherlock and Victor in this 'verse. It started as a fleeting thought, and somehow became 2-3 full length fics instead. It was never my intention to break my own heart with their unhappy ending, but it happened nonetheless.
> 
> If you are interested in reading the conclusion to Victor and Sherlock's storyline, add me to alerts, and you will be notified as to when the next instalment is uploaded. If not... Well it's been real, and thank you regardless.
> 
> See you on the other side; 'til we meet again.
> 
> Xx lilylashes

_I'm climbing out of love with you_  
_Cos for us to work, we'd break some rules_  
_And I don't know if you'll let go, and fall with me_  
_Yeah, I'll bite my tongue and hold my breath_  
_Find my way out of this mess_  
_Cos I don't know if you'll let go and fall with me_

_So I'm climbing out of love_  
_Yeah, I'm climbing out of love_  
_Oh, I'm climbing out of love_  
_With you_

~*~

05 JANUARY 1997

The evening was… Perfection.

All his life, Sherlock had assumed he didn’t particularly care for sleeping or eating, but now he was beginning to believe that perhaps it was not the acts themselves that he was opposed to, but how they were introduced, and then forced on him when he was a small child, because truly: sleeping and eating in the Trevors’ household brought about feelings of safety and happiness and being valued like Sherlock had never known.

True to Victor’s warning, Genevieve Trevor did, indeed, ‘make a big deal’ over Sherlock’s birthday. When she’d called Victor and Sherlock to dinner, Sherlock had followed Victor into the dining room, and stopped dead in his tracks. Despite having had only a day’s notice, Mrs Trevor had managed to transform their normally classically decorated dining room into an absolute starburst of colour and streamers and balloons and fairy lights, with a lovely, hand-lettered banner reading ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHERLOCK!’ strung across the wall. She, Jonathan, and Mr Trevor sat at the table, laden with crackers and candles, and on the buffet table against the wall was a gorgeous chocolate cake with the same salutation scrawled across the top in a lovely, looping script.

‘Oh,’ was all Sherlock was able to manage, his mouth falling open of its own accord.

As Sherlock had once told Victor, birthdays at Holmes House was always a very stiff and formal affair, even back when Sherlock and Mycroft had been small children. There had never been streamers and party hats; indeed the only indication that it was a day different than any other was the chocolate cake that Mummy allowed only twice a year on both Holmes boys’ birthdays. Victor had looked shocked and saddened when Sherlock told him this, and had admitted, almost embarrassedly, that his Mum was _very_ into birthdays. Sherlock could see what he meant.

‘I hope you don’t mind, dear,’ Mrs Trevor said, rising from her seat to come over and give Sherlock a warm hug and kiss on the cheek, ‘Victor said he thought you would be going to your parents’ tomorrow on your actual birthday, so we wanted to have a little celebration for you tonight. I’m sure he told you; birthdays are quite the special day in our house.’

‘It’s lovely, Mrs Trevor, thank you,’ Sherlock managed, leaning into her embrace, ‘No one has ever… I mean. It’s perfect. I love it.’

‘I’m so glad, love,’ she said happily, and gestured to him and Victor to take a seat.

The meal itself was great as well. Sherlock had come to love sitting around the table with the Trevors, listening to Jonathan and Victor argue over music and books and life in general, or Mr Trevor tell his wife about his day, or Mrs Trevor ask her sons about what projects they had going on. The conversation flowed easily, and brought about a feeling of home and family that Sherlock had never witnessed in with his own parents. It made him a bit green with envy, but all four Trevors made sure to include him in the conversation, so he supposed his feelings weren’t all that fair.

After dinner, Mrs Trevor carefully brought over the masterpiece of the birthday cake, and everyone sang happy birthday to him, and he blew out his candles. All the attention almost made him uncomfortable, but the Trevors were all so warm and inviting, and didn’t seem at all put out to be wasting the entire night on him that he couldn’t help but feel… Honoured. Cherished. Loved.

It was _family_, in a way Sherlock had never experienced before. And it was all he could do to force a smile, and keep the tears at bay, and let himself be swept away by the curious notion that maybe… Just maybe… He deserved it.

~*~

After cake, the Trevor family, with Sherlock in tow, retired to the sitting room, and Mrs Trevor presented Sherlock will a small mountain of presents. One after another, she passed the beautifully wrapped packages to him, and he revealed several old texts from various scientists, boxes of lab equipment, a small stack of sheet music from composers he had discussed in depth with Jonathan, and then there were only two parcels remaining.

The smaller box was wrapped in thick red and green paper with a gold bow, and a label that proclaimed ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS!’

‘We meant to give you this for Christmas, but… Well, things got a bit hectic, and we never got the chance,’ Mrs Trevor explained with a sheepish grin, ‘It’s silly, I know, but it’s just a little something I saw in the shop, and thought it would suit you.’

Sherlock pulled back the wrappings to reveal a beautiful cashmere scarf in a lovely shade of cadet blue. He reverently removed it from the tissue paper of the box, and brought it to his cheek, revelling in the feel of the soft wool against his skin.

‘I thought it would look lovely with your eyes, dear,’ Mrs Trevor explained fondly, ‘You can’t fault me, I am a mum after all, and, well, you never seem to be warm enough. I hope that’s all right.’

‘I love it,’ Sherlock said honestly, still running the material between his fingers, ‘Thank you.’

Victor shifted in his seat, and passed the other, much larger box to Sherlock, and smiled self consciously, ‘Well, good, cos it goes with this one. It’s from me, and Jon, and my parents, really for the same reason. You need more warm clothes, Sherlock, you can’t keep wearing my old sweatshirt everywhere, especially with how cold it’s been.’

Sherlock loosened the ribbons around the final package, and peeled back the plain brown paper. Gently, he shook the box open, and found himself faced with an absolutely stunning dark grey woollen coat. He just gaped at it, running his fingers over the signature red stitching around the buttonholes, and fingering the sharp, stylish collar.

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock said quietly, ‘I…’ but he had no more words. It must have been okay, though, because Mrs Trevor pulled him into another one of her incredible hugs, and just held him while he got his emotions back under control, and just rested his cheek against her shoulder for a long moment.

‘Happy birthday, Sherlock,’ she murmured into his hair, ‘I hope twenty-one brings you everything you hope for. Thank you for making my son so happy.’

~*~

After Sherlock had tried on his beautiful new coat, and the Trevors had sang a round of ‘He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,’ Sherlock and Victor were finally allowed to retire to Victor’s room, Sherlock feeling extremely overwhelmed from the evening’s events. They collapsed on the settee on Victor’s room, and settled for some light snogging to unwind.

‘Victor, this whole evening was… Amazing,’ Sherlock told him honestly, ‘I don’t feel as though I deserve all this attention.’

‘It was nothing, Sherlock,’ Victor replied between kisses, ‘You deserve it all and more. I’m sorry no one has ever told you this before.’

They carried on for a bit, innocent kisses turning into caresses and then something more insistent. Sherlock felt as though he was craving Victor in a way he had never needed another human being; this was closer to the way his body craved cocaine or oxygen. When their need became so great that they transferred themselves to Victor’s bed, Sherlock pulled Victor down on top of him, and began massaging him through the fabric of his trousers. Victor allowed this for a moment, then he pulled back, and stared down at Sherlock, hesitance written all over his face.

‘Victor?’ Sherlock asked uncertainly, ‘Is… Is everything okay?’

Victor paused, and bit his lip for a moment, before swallowing hard, and rolling off of Sherlock before speaking, ‘I… I was thinking maybe we could… Uhm… Oh God,’ Victor said, his cheeks flushing bright red. ‘Nevermind. It’s just. Stupid.’

‘What?’ Sherlock asked curiously. He’d never seen Victor this self-conscious before… He’d seen the full scope of Victor’s ability to be socially awkward, or clumsy, but never had he seen the look Victor currently wore that looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. It was somewhat concerning, and somewhat endearing.

‘I was just… Thinking… Don’t laugh, okay, just promise me that?’ Victor begged, and only continued after Sherlock nodded, ‘I just thought maybe this time you’d like to… You know… Switch?’

‘Switch?’ Sherlock repeated, confused, but as he stared at Victor’s miserable face, understanding dawned on him, and he found himself also going very red, ‘_Oh_. Switch, like… Like _switch_. Oh wow,’ he said, aware he was close to babbling, ‘Victor, are you sure that’s something you… Want?’

‘I am, Sherlock,’ Victor said softly, ‘I really, really am. I… I want you to _know_ me, the way I know you. I want… I want you to know _all of me_. If you want to, I mean.’

‘I want to,’ Sherlock said quickly, ‘Oh god, I _so_ want to. I just… I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve never…’

‘It’s okay,’ Victor reassured him, still flushed, ‘We can… Go slow?’

‘_Oh, god, yes_,’ Sherlock said, his voice low, and his eyes dark. Slowly, tentatively, he leaned in to kiss Victor, bringing one hand up to cup Victor’s face, and the other snaked around his waist to pull Victor’s body flush against his. Victor responded eagerly, guiding them back towards his bed, and moaning softly against Sherlock’s lips.

After a few more blissful moments, Victor broke the kiss, and pulled away from Sherlock just long enough to reach down and strip his shirt off, and undo his flies. Sherlock followed suit, and together, they climbed under the covers, hands still groping frantically for each other.

Sherlock shimmied out of his trousers and pants, and watched, mesmerised, as Victor did the same. Finally they were completely skin-to-skin, and just laid, pressed against each other, kissing, and touching, and being altogether perfect.

‘Are you sure?’ Sherlock asked again in a gruff whisper, ‘I’m perfectly happy to continue on as we have been.’

‘I’m sure, so sure,’ Victor replied, breath heavy.

That was all the encouragement Sherlock needed. He resumed kissing Victor — on the mouth, then down his neck and chest, then took Victor in his mouth, only this time he also reached down to massage Victor’s arse. Victor stretched to reach for the lube from the bedside table, and nervously passed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock paused in his ministrations long enough to pour some lube into his hand, and then he was gently, reverently, massaging Victor’s opening, and slipped first one, then two fingers inside once he felt Victor relax against him.

Victor groaned and grunted against him, screwing his eyes shut against the intrusion, but eventually the resistance gave way, and he was pushing back against Sherlock’s hand, alternating before moving forward into Sherlock’s willing mouth, and then back again against his diligent fingers, working him open.

Sherlock added a third finger, and curled his hand upwards, finding Victor’s prostate, and — good god — the noises Victor made shot straight to his own groin, and he found himself hard and heavy between his thighs.

And then finally, finally, Victor whispered, ‘I think I’m ready,’ and Sherlock slicked himself up, lined up, and nudged his way in ever so slightly, and breeched Victor’s body with the upmost care and reverence, keeping his eyes fixed on Victor’s the entire time. Victor’s mouth fell open, and his brows knit together, expression pained, so Sherlock stilled, allowing Victor time to adjust to the sensation. When Victor brought his arm up to cover his face and closed his eyes, breathing heavily, Sherlock started to withdraw

‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he murmured again, but Victor’s hand shot out and grabbed his forearm in a vicelike grip, a wordless order to just stop and let things be for a moment.

‘You’re not,’ Victor breathed, though he was still holding Sherlock’s arm in a death grip, ‘Just… Slow. Go slow, okay?’

And Sherlock did. He went _so_ slow, slower than he had ever done _anything_, because slow was _dull_ and _boring_ and _tiresome_, and he always wanted everything _fast_ and _now, _and he never wanted to _wait_ for _anything, _that’s why everyone always told him he was _spoiled_ and _selfish _and _horrible_, but he wanted to wait for _this_, wanted it to be sweet and slow and perfect for Victor, because Victor was _perfect_, and... and...

And Victor was arching off the bed to meet Sherlock’s hips as the last inch of Sherlock’s cock slipped inside him, and he was groaning ‘It’s… Oh god, Sherlock, it’s… You’re… You’re _inside_ me,’ with nothing short of wonder, and Sherlock was holding onto Victor’s shoulders to steady himself, because he wanted every part of him connected to every part of Victor.

Sherlock thought idly that he had never held anything so precious in his hands.

‘Okay?’ he asked huskily, ‘Is this okay? Are you… Okay?’ He’d never had his words fail him quite like this before, but being buried to the hilt in the tight warm heat of Victor’s body was causing his brain to wonderfully short circuit.

‘I’m… Amazing, Sherlock,’ Victor replied, sounding heady and out of sorts himself, ‘You can, you know, move now, if you want. That would be… Good.’

So he did. He began with infinitesimal shifts of his hips, to and fro, and when Victor threw his head back, and pushed back to meet his thrusts, he was encouraged, and drove himself home, slamming into Victor, and Victor rocked back, and they were one. A perfect mechanism of electricity and pleasure, and when they were finally nearing completion, they had both climbed so high that a fall was inevitable.

And fall, they did.

‘_Victor_, _oh god_, _Victor_,’ Sherlock chanted, like an incantation, and Victor all but sobbed his name back.

Finally, Victor stiffened, pulled Sherlock into a kiss that was one part fire, and one part tears, and screamed his release against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock followed suit seconds later.

They parted, stardust and sparks falling from their fingertips, and Sherlock pulled out, and fell to his back next to Victor, panting.

The silence following… Was excruciating.

Several heartbeats later, Sherlock rolled to his side, and to his astonishment, turned to find tears falling from Victor’s eyes.

‘Victor, what…?’ he asked, concern constricting around his heart like a python, ‘Are you hurt? Did I…?’

And Victor… Beautiful, perfect, _stupid_ Victor turned his head only fractionally to face Sherlock, his heart positively streaming through his eyes.

‘Sherlock,’ he choked, ‘I… I think… Oh god, I’m so sorry. Sherlock, I think I’m falling in love with you.’

And then… The darkness that had been hovering so ominously over Sherlock’s head for the last seven months, swelled up, and crashed down over him.

And then… Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My oneshot, Rolling Thunder, takes place in the direct aftermath of this story's end... It is the interlude between the end of Sherlock and Victor, and the confrontation between Sherlock and Liam.


	14. Part XIV -- Epilogue -- 21 January 1997

_21 January 1997_

_Dear Victor,_

_This is stupid. You’re never going to read this, as I am never going to send it, but the witless wonder that is posing as my therapist has insisted I compose letters to those I feel as though I have wronged as part of my recovery, and I desperately need to escape the banality of this infernal place, so here we are._

_I’m supposed to apologise, which is something that has never come easy to me, but I suppose I should be used to it by now when you are concerned. I feel as though I have been apologising to you since the day I met you. Please understand, I’m not saying this in anger, or as a slight against you; quite the opposite. I sincerely, genuinely mean that I have transgressed so many times and in so many ways during our brief time together, that I truly, wholeheartedly understand that you are so deserving of every apology I have both said, and had not the courage to say._

_Victor, please understand that I am sorry. And I know if I were to hunt you down once I’m out of this place, and force you to hear my words, you would forgive me. We would recommence whatever it was we were in the midst of, and very possibly ride off into the sunset, happily ever after like the characters in those nonsensical novels you enjoy so much. And this is precisely why I cannot seek you out again._

_The letter you wrote me detailed how much you feel I deserve, but Victor, have you ever once stopped to consider what it is _ _you_ _ deserve? You spoke passionately about how I deserved so much more than Liam, but what you fail to see is how you, Victor Trevor, _ _you_ _ deserve so much more than _ _me_ _. You deserve someone who can love you fully, and not be haunted. You said you hoped you were a light in the darkness, and you certainly were. You were, and are so full of light, that I refuse to allow my heavy-handed toxicity to compromise it. There is something deeply, deeply wrong with me, and I believe it is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I would never ask you to share that burden._

_You also said once that your time spent with me were some of the best days of your life. Please, please know that the same is true for me. I have sincerely enjoyed getting to know you — in every way possible. You are brilliant, and wonderful, and clever, and _ _kind_ _. What I ever did to deserve even the briefest of days with you I will never know. You are a talented artist and musician, and an even better man. Thank you for sharing it all with me._

_As for me, once the imminent threat of relapse has subsided, and I’m a little more back in my head, I will be leaving England for an undisclosed amount of time. <strike>Mike</strike> — sorry, _ _Mycroft_ _ — has arranged for me to attend a rehabilitation facility in America — Florida to be specific. To be honest, it all sounds perfectly hateful — the warmth and the wet and the people — but the idea of staying in England right now with the fear of seeing you or Liam around any given corner sounds worse._

_Victor, sometimes I wonder if I should have just let you have that chemistry book, and walked away… _

_…But then I think of all the things I would have missed, and my chest aches in a way I never thought possible. _

_I will always, always remember building that fort in the woods with you, and drinking your father’s best wine out of your mother’s best coffee mugs. I will remember the smile on your face when you opened the door on your birthday that first time I came to see you in Kent. I will remember being curled up on the floor, watching you play your piano._

_I will never forget the look in your eyes when we <strike>fucked</strike> __made love_ _ as you would say._

_And I will miss you greatly._

_You said on my birthday that you were falling in love with me, but we both know that was false. It was not _ _falling_ _, Victor, it was _ _fell_ _ — you _ _fell_ _ in love with me, despite my many warnings to not do exactly that. I was never yours to have, and yet you blundered on anyway. Your refusal to be removed from my life was your own undoing — and mine._

_Sometimes I wish you had walked away after your art show, and left it at that…_

_…But I know that then we would have been robbed of all of this, and I know in the end, I would never change a thing._

_Victor, you fell in love with me, and you were not supposed to. Falling is like flying, but with a more permanent destination. You fell, and you took me with you, and now I’m deep into something I don’t know how to escape from._

_ <strike>Victor Trevor, </strike> _ <strike> _I love you too_ </strike> _ <strike>.</strike> _

_You fell in love with me after one magical summer. I’ll spend the rest of my days climbing out of love with you, because if _ _I_ _ had one wish, it would be that you find a love as committed, and beautiful, and _ _free_ _ as you are.  
_

_And I know now that that can never be me._

_Sherlock_


End file.
